


Glances Into a Spark

by Saesama



Series: Glances Into a Spark [1]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 09:33:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 28,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saesama/pseuds/Saesama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one-shots, more or less canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kick in the Head

**Author's Note:**

> The Glances Series are mostly-canon one shots set within the same sprawling, incerconnected head-canon. Glances Into a Spark also merges with the stories in Primary Analysis, Kick in the Head, and Crush. For the full chronological set, go here: http://saesama.livejournal.com/4901.html

The two young mechs looked around eagerly as the door to the training room slid open. They were to begin battle training, learning how to fight and think on the battle field when directly engaging the enemy. They had been told little about their instructor except that his track record as a teacher was excellent, which meant very little to the two of them. As the future rulers of Cybertron, _every_ instructor they had carried an excellent record, had excellent recommendations, the very best of the best. 

Orion Pax shoved down a slight feeling of unease. He was to be Prime, and was a pacifist by design, to balance the war-like nature of his brother. But a Prime who couldn't defend himself was a poor Prime indeed, which meant that he was to train with his brother, at least at first. The brother's moved further into the room, looking around, followed closely by the twitchy form of the Councilor Scalar, who chaperoned them around when Alpha Trion was busy, which was almost always.

The room was large, huge, with great obstacles and entire buildings spotted across the great expanse. Of their instructor, or indeed, anything sentient aside from themselves, there was no sign. "Primus save us, he must be late." Scalar half-sighed, half-moaned, his hands working at each other almost constantly.

"Some instructor," Megatron snorted. "I'd have thought that such a good record would have included some sense of punctuality."

"You'd think that, wouldn't you?" The words, low and rough, were punctuated by the high whine of a charging cannon. "Don't twitch a gyro, any of you, until I give you permission to do so."

Orion froze, painfully still, fighting the urge to turn and meet his assailant face to face. At the edge of his vision he could see Megatron, close to his left but half a step behind, looking embarrassed and furious at having been caught off guard. Whoever the mech behind them was, he was dangerous, weaponry already up to the near-painful whine of fully charged and they hadn't even _noticed_ him approach.

"Councilor Scalar," the unseen mech continued, a measure of politeness and courtesy creeping into the rough tone. "If you insist on remaining here, I request that you stay to the side and not interfere with the lesson in any way, shape, or form. If you prefer, you can observe from room two-alpha upstairs." Scalar squawked something about gratitude, his voice forced an octave higher by fear, and Orion heard the distinct sound of hurried footsteps on metal, and the hiss-thump of the door opening and closing again. He'd actually abandoned them! Never once had they been without a Councilor in attendance.

"Now, for you two." There were clear, deliberate footsteps as the mech moved closer to the two brothers, and Orion realized with true alarm that there was a fully charged cannon within ticks of the back of his head, dull electric heat radiating against the plates of his helm. 

"Turn and face each other," came the order. Orion did as directed, coming face to face with his brother, nearly toe to toe, and Megatron looked equal parts indignant, angry and terrified. Their instructor was a barely visible shape of red and black and chrome to his left, most of the view blocked by the twin cannon's aimed at the faces of Cybertron's future leaders.

Abruptly, the cannons were gone, and Orion barely had time to register the hand on the back of his head before his forehead met Megatron's with a resounding clang. Pain, sharp and immediate and _new_ echoed through his skull as he staggered back, and with wonder he realized that under the hand he'd clapped to the spot, he could feel an actual _dent_ , his first injury.

Their instructor was only a little smaller than the two of them, the first mech they'd met, aside from Alpha Trion, who they didn't completely tower over. He was broad and powerfully built, the red-black-chrome surface of his armor scratched and chipped. He watched the two of them dispassionately, hands on his hips. "That was for walking into my classroom unarmed," he said flatly. "From now on, if you ever even think you're about to meet with me, you'd better have a gun or a blade or something at the ready, and you'd better be prepared for an attack. Am I understood?"

"Understood," Orion said hesitantly, his brother echoing his response with barely concealed menace. 

The dark mech's optics focused on the future Lord High Protector. "Let's get something else clear," he said contemptuously. "I know who you are, _what_ you are. After you take up the posts you were designed for, I'll 'Yes Lord, no Lord, yes Prime, no Prime' the two of you all you want. But as far as I'm concerned now, you're both a pair of sparklings suffering under the delusion that you're worth my time, and you'll remain so until you prove me wrong, am I understood?"

Orion glanced at Megatron, who was practically radiating sullen anger. Their entire lives, they had been treated with the utmost respect. _No one_ had ever treated them so callously, had ever even laid a hand on them. To be treated as sparklings, as _worthless_...

" _Am I understood?!_ " their instructor thundered.

"...Understood."

A smug look crossed the mech's face. "Good," he said, dropping into a light-footed stance. "My designation is Ironhide, I'm here to teach you both how to not die in battle, and the two of you have five breems to try and take me down."


	2. Coronation

Orion Pax was shaking

It was difficult to notice, unless one stood directly beside the Heir Prime, but he could feel it, a nervousness-induced trembling in his shoulders. It was twenty and some vorns after they'd been sparked, and it was time for them to assume the roles for which they had been built, Prime and Lord High Protector, and Orion was _terrified_.

A hand on his shoulder, support and strength, and Orion gave his brother a grateful, though strained smile. Megatron was as terrified as he was, but he hid it better, behind a front of excited eagerness. They stood together just inside the balcony of the Simfur Temple, and just on the other side of titanium walls, practically all of Cybertron waited. He could just see Sentinel Prime delivering the benediction, asking Primus to smile on them. Shifting, he could catch a glimpse of Omnitron, stern and silent at Sentinel Prime's side.

They had trained for this, mentally and physically, their whole lives. They would be tested, and if they were found lacking, the Challenges they were to face would kill them, and the priests and Council would start over. Near him was the young priest who had trained him and who would become his assistant, and he looked more worried than Orion felt. That worry wasn't entirely unfounded; it was an orn of testing for Ultra Magnus, too. Had he prepared the Heir Prime for his duties? Similarly, the three instructors who had trained Megatron in all forms of combat milled nearby, speaking in hushed tones. Had they taught the Heir Protector enough to survive his Challenge? No time to think about it anymore; Sentinel Prime had given them their cue.

The cheering of the crowd was exhilarating, deafening, as they joined their Sires on the balcony. They made their bows, coordinated as they must be throughout their rule, and the cheers swelled, the people eager to have them. Not that Sentinel Prime and Omnitron were unloved, but they had come to power during the great war with Phyrexia, and those who remembered that war wished to forget it. But now Cybertron was at peace, perfectly ripe for new leadership.

Megatron's Challenge came first, and he sank to his knees before Omnitron. "I await to serve," he intoned, ceremonial words as old as their kind, and the crowds fell eerily silent.

"Serve who?" Omnitron demanded, icy cold.

"The people of Cybertron," Megatron answered.

"Prove it."

A thread of concern wound through Orion's spark. The two great mechs would fight, and though Omnitron would not immediately attack, he _would_ fight back when Megatron engaged him, and he would keep fighting until he was defeated or Megatron was dead. A single pin was all that was needed, more symbolic than anything, but getting Omnitron to that position would be difficult. Though they both had been taught by the same three mechs, Omnitron had been tempered in war, and that experience gave him a considerable edge.

Megatron stood and the mood of the crowd changed again, from solemn ceremony to charged expectation. Omnitron moved first, jumping from the balcony edge to the plaza below, the crowd splitting hastily around him, being sure to give him all the room he desired. Megatron followed and the two circled each other, optics locked and claws flexing in a subtle threat.

Megatron lunged suddenly, claws splayed for a killing strike at Omnitron's spark. Omnitron evaded and took a swipe at Megatron's optics that shaved thin metal strips from the Heir Protector's helm. Megatron ducked back and Omnitron jumped up, transforming in mid-air and shooting up into the sky, Megatron hot on his tail.

Concern blossomed into pure dread. Air combat was where Omnitron excelled. He had taken Megatron out of the air before, when the young mech decided his first flight would be through Iacon's busiest thoroughfares, and Megatron would be all too eager to repay the humiliation, despite his almost total lack of flight combat experience.

They spiraled up together, belly to belly before they collided, half-transforming to deploy claws and rip at armor. Such contact could only be sustained for brief seconds before they had to disengage or risk stalling out. Except when Omnitron pulled back, Megatron went with him, transforming _completely_ to latch onto Omnitron with all limbs. 

Omnitron's outraged scream echoed across Simfur. As large as he was, Megatron was even more massive, and Omnitron could not remain in the air with that much added weight. They went into a tailspin, arrowing for the Plaza again at too high of a speed, totally uncontrolled and the crowd scattered.

They hit hard, cracking through the polished copper inlays of the Plaza floor and deep into the silica bedrock underneath. Omnitron lay on his back at the bottom of the impact crater, his silver-bright armor badly scratched and dented. Megatron crouched on the Lord High Protector, all four sets of his claws jammed beneath his Sire's armor. He leaned close, a bare tick between their faces. "Do you yield?" he asked softly.

So fast! Not the fastest Challenge in their history, but close, and Orion's spark flared with love and admiration for his brother. Omnitron's face went from rage and pain to an expression Orion had never seen on the cold mech - acquiescence, and was that pride? Orion thought it was - and he smiled in his grim way. "I yield," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Lord High Protector Megatron."

The crowd exploded into cheering again, chanting Megatron's name beneath the general noise. They climbed from the crater and it was Omnitron who went to a knee this time, head bowed in deference, and the motion rippled out. Only Orion and Sentinel Prime remained standing, but they gave their own bows, respect towards an equal.

Megatron touched the back of Omnitron's helm lightly and the older mech stood, leading the new Lord High Protector back to the temple. "Keep our people safe," Orion heard Omnitron mutter before he entered the temple proper, to have his wounds tended to. Megatron climbed the winding stairs back to the balcony alone, to thunderous applause, and Orion wondered if anyone else could see the energon dribbling from a jagged rend in his leg armor, or the careful way he carried his arm close to his side. His wounds would be dealt with later. He took his place, not at Orion's side but at Sentinel's, and Orion felt briefly, horribly alone.

He'd think about loneliness later. He had his own Challenge to overcome. He stepped before Sentinel Prime, and the crowd fell silent again. He did not kneel, as one did before a warrior, but he gave the priest's bow, his head down and his hands open in supplication before him. "I await to serve," he said, glad that his voice did not betray the very real fear he felt, that his body did not waver as he held his position.

"Serve who?" Sentinel Prime prodded, so like and so different from his brother Omnitron.

"Primus," Orion said firmly, raising his head to meet Sentinel Prime's optics. 

Sentinel Prime took Orion's open hands in his own, pulling him up to stand straight. "Prove it," he said quietly. His chest split, layers of armor sliding back to reveal the dark metal of his spark chamber and the gold tracery that caged it - the Matrix of Leadership.

He knew what he had to do, but it was hard, so hard, against every self-preservation program he had, to expose his spark chamber in such a public place. Taking strength from Sentinel's hands still in his, from Megatron watching him, he opened his own armor, going a step beyond and opening his spark chamber as well, iridescent light playing over Sentinel Prime's face. Sentinel Prime was taller than he was and he shifted his grip, his hands going to the Prime's upper arms for support as he went up on his toes. He caught a glimpse of Sentinel Prime's spark chamber opening and, locking optics with his Sire, Orion brought their sparks together.

There was a moment of confusion as the emotions of another swam through his spark; happiness, sorrow, resignation, a deep peace. Then his impressions of Sentinel were swept away by something else, something hugely magnificent and old, so very, very old.

He was swept along, whirled to unravel his spark into its individual threads, his whole being laid out for inspection. There were others here, all who had held the Matrix before him, tied forever into the artifact. Some he knew, had met, even, whether they were on the Council of Ancients - Alpha Trion, Prosilmus Trion, Insolton Trion - or as priests in the temples - Ultra Thiotime, Ultra Alternal, Ultra Contimus. Still others he knew from the history files, the great Prime's of the past - Nominal Prime, Omega Prime, Exodus Prime, Reactimus Prime, Leonidus Prime, Platinal Prime, Prima - with a start, he realized there were so many, _too_ many, far more than he had ever expected, and he knew them all, knew where in the chain of leadership they fell. He knew who had failed their people, and who had been brought back, again and again to serve the same role, and how many times had the Matrix been passed along?

 _'Only Primus himself knows'_ Sentinel Prime at his side, his benefactor in this place. The living consciousness of the Matrix surrounded them, the combined weight of every Prime in that long chain and the AllSpark itself, of which the Matrix was but a shard, broken off many, many vorns before.

His mind whirled, disoriented, overwhelmed with knowledge.

The Primes converged on his spark, pulling away the strands surrounding his core being. Oh Primus, it _hurt_ , and he screamed without sound as he was dispassionately examined. They saw his doubts, his fears of being unable to live up to the destiny he was chosen for. They saw his naivety, his jealously guarded innocence. They saw how he would cling to his brother, his instructors, anyone around him, too eager for them to be happy, too eager to save them from dissatisfaction. They saw his stubbornness, his thick-headed refusal to change his ways. They saw his arrogance, his unwarranted self-assurance in his own spiritual superiority and he writhed in shame and agony as they pulled him apart.

_'NO!'_

He would not let them pull him apart like this, would not let them shred his spark and destroy him with shame. He pulled the strands of his being back, weaving them to reform his spark, rebuilding it in the pattern of those around him. Confidence, not arrogance. Empathy, not dependence. Willpower over stubbornness, purity over naivety. The ability to tell when he was wrong, instead of always questioning when he was right. He spun his spark tight, a brilliant star, drawing a new name from the collective knowledge around him and approval buffeted him from all sides, the great consciousness of the Matrix echoing without words.

_**'IT IS DONE'** _

He slammed back into his own mind, clutching the armor beneath his hands for support as he reeled. His chronometer told him only a few seconds had passed during the eternity of his Challenge. Everything looked too bright, lit from within and humming with energy, and oh Primus, _he could feel their sparks_ , beacons of life that sang to him, offering just a glimpse of the mech within the armor.

Sentinel's spark chamber was closed again, the gold tracery gone. He gave Orion _(Orion?)_ a sad smile and bowed low. "Optimus Prime," he said, rich voice echoing over the Plaza. "Be welcome."


	3. Winging It

Megatron stared at the course with sightless optics. Below, three graceful shapes chased each other up a narrow canyon, thrusters leaving dim aftertrails to mark their paths while the crowds cheered. 

Megatron tuned the noise out with mild irritation. Aerial displays bored him half to deactivation, despite his Seeker design. Certainly, Seekers had their uses, and flight was an invaluable advantage in any combat situation, but too often, Cybertron's flighted citizens were all show and no substance, preening in their building-top hangars with completely unwarranted arrogance and flaunting their ability to escape gravity over the 'useless ground-pounders'. 

Not that he himself didn't have his pride. But he had the skills to back up whatever claims he made, and he had no patience for flimsy displays. 

"Look, brother," Megatron gave the mech beside him a bland look, and Optimus Prime gave him an amused smile in return. "No, not at me. The Seeker in this next segment is modeled after your basic design, it seems they've simplified it a bit to improve atmospheric drag-"

"I'm hardly _obsolete_ ," Megatron growled, barely restraining himself from adding a few rude words at the end of his sentence. Since he, the Lord High Protector and military leader of Cybertron, was bored out of his wits, of _course_ his pacifist brother was completely fascinated. Which was made all the worst by the fact that _he_ was required to appear, and Optimus was not.

Lovely.

Optimus gave him one of _those_ looks, long and seeing straight through him. "I forget that you were on the consultant board that approved of these new designs," the Prime said softly.

Any other mech would have said something condescending, or taunting, or scolding. Not Optimus, and Megatron felt his irritation with his brother dissipate. A gift of the Matrix, to be able to read a mech and know just what to say to diffuse a situation - or inflame it, and Optimus wielded both with considerable skill. But now, he was all placating, trying to get them through this orn.

Megatron wanted none of it. Being grumpy every now and again felt good. "Can I leave yet?" he hissed under his breath. "I have better things to do than sit here and watch a group of air-headed idiots dance."

Optimus sighed, sitting back in his seat. "You can leave whenever you want," he pointed out, equally quiet, both too aware of the other dignitaries in the viewing booth. "But I think the Trion's would turn your head around backwards for you if you offended our guests by dropping early."

Pit. Why hadn't he ever assigned an Air Commander? He could have easily put this task on a subordinate's shoulders and escaped back to the politics-free sanctuary of his private quarters. But now he was stuck here, explaining the processor-numbing intricacies of the dances outside of the windows to the painfully stupid ambassadors from some inorganic planet half a galaxy away from Cybertron.

 _Finally!_ The main military segment of the showing was finished, and the rest of it would be civilian engineers coming forward to flaunt their creations. He could stick around and watch one out of politeness, and he'd be free to excuse himself. His lieutenants would report any interesting developments to him later, and Optimus could play host to the spindly little ambassadors.

The first of the civilian showings would be a battle between three Seekers, settling some dispute or other between them. Megatron didn't care much for the reasons behind their tift, and he was dimly aware that perhaps he shouldn't be slouching in his seat so much, but his foul mood was steadily sapping his ability to remain the pleasant and polite host he should be. Optimus gave him an exasperated look and turned to the dignitaries at his side, all fluid hand motions as he explained that this was an almost-traditional part of any Showing, that engineers could appear before the people of Cybertron to settle their disputes once and for all. 

Megatron scanned the contestant's files briefly out of habit. Hm. One of the three was also the engineer involved in the dispute; a rare thing, as most engineers preferred to modify others instead of doing the work on themselves. Idly, Megatron tapped into the Network, calling up information on this engineer - a scientist of some renown, with a basis in exploration but ties to damn near every scientific field on Cybertron, and a permanent place on the Academy's roster. The other two engineers were colleagues of his, and he'd insulted them somehow or other, suggesting that their modifications weren't worth the cost of the ores that made them. And to prove it, he offered to rip them apart with his own hands.

Hm.

Slightly interested, he sat up to get a better view of the contestants. Picking out the engineer from the three wasn't difficult; he was the only one not engaging in an overblown display of flaunting. He didn't _need_ to flaunt. He wasn't much bigger than the other two, but he practically radiated power and confidence, a subtle influence that made the dramatic displays of his opponents look silly. The other two engineers were there, too, almost lost beneath the towering Seekers, their faces twisted in barely-checked disgust and anger. The engineer-Seeker gave them a long, cold look and dismissed them, raising his head to look over the crowds, proud and calm.

For a brief moment, he looked directly at Megatron. The tiniest drop of his head; acknowledgement. Megatron leaned forward.

Announcements made, names called, and with a klaxon blare, the battle began. The three mechs transformed and rocketed into the air, customized thrusters roaring. The engineer was slower than the other two, seeming to struggle to gain lift-off and the other two left him behind quickly. He stabilized just above the roof-line of the nearest towers, banking into a wide circle while the others looped back towards him. A double scream echoed off of Trypticon's buildings as the two warriors honed in on their prey.

The engineer dropped like a rock out of their path and transformed. 

Megatron suspected he was grinning. The engineer was _fast_ , his previous instability a ruse as he curved back up, half alt-mode and half-bipedal. He shot between the two hunters, raking long claws along their flanks and he transformed again between them, thrusters roaring to blast at their scraped armor. He arrowed up in alt-mode, spiraling into the climb, the enraged hunters on his tail. He peaked high above the city and transformed again, falling in his bipedal mode, powerful cannons on each arm ripping more armor from the other two as they tried to turn back towards him without stalling. 

When he transformed again, it was within bare ticks of the heads of some of the audience, the backwash of his thrusters clearly blistering armor as he zipped over their heads. He looped back up, aiming directly for the red hunter, who closed in on him in obvious eagerness. The distance between them shortened frighteningly fast, the unburnt portion of the audience leaned forward - and the engineer veered, tackling the _blue_ hunter instead, landing on the warrior's back, all claws and kicks and those powerful guns.

Blue went down, hard. He did not move.

Red screamed in outrage, chasing after the engineer, who was speeding back into the sky. They spiraled around each other, engaging in brief claw battles, raining metal shreds on the observers below. For a moment or two, Red had the upper hand, until the scientist managed to get behind him and transform enough to grab the warrior, and the groan of overstressed metal permeated even the thick crystal window Megatron was looking through, punctuated by a cry of agony. The hunter, his wing not quite ripped off but certainly pulled far out of joint, was barely able to control his fall back to the ground below. Just as he moved to land, still in his alt-form, the engineer slammed into him with all limbs, smashing him into the ground.

Megatron sat back, impressed. Elegant, fierce, _brutal,_ and according to the records he'd pulled up, a veritable genius. Beside him, Optimus looked as troubled by the violent display as Megatron wasn't, his face set into uncharacteristically stiff lines. Below, the announcer was proclaiming what everyone else already knew. "The winner: Starscream!"

Megatron smiled. He'd just found his new Air Commander.


	4. Two Roads

_The future leaders of Cybertron are lying here before me._

It wasn't a surprise. The rule of Cybertron had passed along in such a way for longer than the records stretched. Just over two and a half hundred thousand vorns was the duration of one cycle of leadership. Some hundred vorns before the end of a cycle, the Council would begin to build the next Prime, the next Lord High Protector, their every circuit carefully crafted and programmed. Sixteen vorns before the end, the new leaders would be Sparked, and trained in their duties. Then, at the very end, the Matrix would be passed onto the new Prime, and both sets of brothers would face the people of Cybertron, one old, one new, and the leadership would be passed on for all to witness.

Later, the Council would vote to allow the old Prime and Protector onto the Council, but Optimus Prime doubted he or Megatron would be invited to join. While the Council did not actively dislike either of them, they disapproved of much of the way they handled their business. 

_And of Megatron's expansionist ideals._ Optimus mentally shook away the thought. He knew his brother still wished to expand Cybertron’s influence, but he had not been able to convince the Council or Optimus that the races of nearby planets would benefit from Cybertronian advisers during his rule. And now he would never get the chance to do so.

Once more, Optimus studied the two prone figures before him. They were a little smaller than their ruling counterparts, the traditionally silver-bright Lord High Protector, and the brilliant, green-copper-gold Prime. Their faces were regal and proud, their limbs long and powerful, and while Optimus was no programmer, he had looked at their logic processors, had seen the intelligence hardwired within. They would treat Cybertron well.

Optimus wouldn't admit it out loud, but he was looking forward to retirement, to living the rest of his life as Optimus, instead of Prime. He took one last look around the great room. The entire Council, a unit of Megatron's Elite Guards, Megatron himself to one side, the two still-Sparkless younglings and the AllSpark itself, balanced on one corner and looming to make even Megatron look small. Satisfied that everything was in place, he lifted his hand to touch the great Cube.

"Wait."

Optimus paused, fingers a bare tick from the Allspark, close enough that he could feel tiny sparks of life-giving energy dancing over his metallic skin. He looked, _everyone_ looked, over at Megatron, who was crossing the floor towards the Allspark, who was gently, firmly pushing the Prime's hand down, away from the Cube's surface. "Wait," he said again. "Why do this, Optimus?"

Optimus looked up at his brother, his Spark doing an odd little flash in his chest. "You know the law, Megatron," he said. "Our cycle is at an end-"

"Yes, but _why_?" Megatron pressed, motioning at the circle of the Council around them. "Because _they_ say we must step aside? Because these ancient, rusted-out drones, who have not admitted a new member to their little _Council_ in the last eight cycles, say that it's our time to stand down? Well, I say no."

The room broke out in murmurs, one set running around the circle of Ancients, the other around the circle of the Guard. "You defy the laws of Cybertron?" Alpha Trion thundered, taking a few menacing steps forward, only to have two of the Guard step between him and Megatron, cannons at the ready.

Megatron smiled up at the towering Ancient "I defy the Council," he said calmly. "But as Lord High Protector, the law is _mine_ to defend - or change." He turned slowly, looking from one Ancient to the next. "And why should I not?" he challenged. "Who is Cybertron best served by? The brothers who brought a Golden Age of knowledge and power to our world, or a pair of untried sparklings who could very well destroy everything we have built? The brothers who _thought_ for themselves and for their people, or the freshly built _puppets_ of the Council?" 

He turned to Optimus, splendid and terrible in his confidence. "The people want us to stay, Optimus," he said, ignoring the outbursts of the Ancients around them. " _Our_ people want us to lead them. They _want_ to be free of the Council of the Ancients, of laws that no longer apply to our time. They want to be free to go out and explore other worlds and expand the empire of Cybertron beyond Cybertron itself. And they want you and I to take them there."

It was hard, so very hard to not believe him, to not trust in his brother as he had so many times before. So much, too much of what he said made sense. They _had_ chafed under the Council's regulations, the Council _was_ outdated in their ways, _several_ mechs had told him they would prefer if he remained Prime instead of hand on the Matrix. 

And yet, as he looked at his brother, as he heard the words ' _expand the empire of Cybertron_ ', realization turned his fuel pump turn to a block of lead. "You want to conquer other worlds," he said slowly. Megatron's beatific smile faltered just the slightest, not enough that any but his brother would catch it. "You want to take over, instate Cybertronian rulers to govern other planets, other _peoples_ , without any concern that they, too, are thinking, living creatures with minds of their own."

Megatron made a dismissive motion with one hand. "They are weak-willed, barely sentient creatures with no direction," he said. "They would destroy themselves a hundred times over without our guidance."

"You want to conquer them," Optimus realized with some amazement that he was angry, no, _furious_ , in a way he couldn't remember ever being. He had known, for too long, that Megatron wanted to have his influence on other worlds, but _this_ \- "You want to take their freedom to increase Cybertron's power. You want to force sentient creatures to your will without their consent, just to 'expand an empire'?"

Megatron's expression turned ugly. "They're not _worthy_ of the freedom they have," he snarled.

" _They have the **right** to their freedom!_ " Optimus roared - Primus, had he _ever_ raised his voice to his brother, to anyone like that? "Who are _we_ to judge what they may and may not do?"

Megatron stepped close, too close. "We are Prime and High Protector of Cybertron," he hissed. "We have led our people to an age of beauty and knowledge, we have proven our people to be powerful and far beyond the abilities of any of the organic filth we call our neighbors. We should be as _gods_ to them."

Optimus didn't back down. "I am no god and neither are you," he said coldly, equally as quiet. "Your love of power has blinded you, Megatron. End this now, before it starts, because you will _not_ conquer in Cybertron's name."

"And who will stop me?" Megatron sneered. "The warriors and scientists of Cybertron are on my side in this. Would you dare stand before my might?"

"Not all of us."

Optimus felt his Spark do another one of those odd flashes as he heard powerful weapons come to power behind him. Ironhide, a so-constant shadow at his side that he'd practically forgotten the Bodyguard's presence. Half of the Elite Guard stood behind the old mech, their weapons trained on Megatron with deadly precision. "Some loyalties go beyond the chain of command," Ironhide growled, the cannons on his arms humming with built-up charge.

Megatron took a half-step towards the Bodyguard, only to come up short as Optimus unsheathed his sword. "Leave now, Megatron," the Prime said softly. "Before one of us is forced to do something that he will regret for the rest of his life."

Megatron was still for a moment, his face twisted into something very much like hate, then he whirled on the two sparkless shells lying forgotten behind them, his arms coming together, _fusing_ together from the elbows down. Optimus yelled something; what, he didn't know, but he moved too late, the thunder of the huge cannon filling the room and the shells were consumed in white fire and the dust of the platform they were on as it disintegrated beneath them. More gunfire, from the Guard, from Megatron, and several of the Ancient's fell, Ironhide fell even as he fired, one optic simply no longer there, then Megatron was gone in a flash of silver metal, and Optimus found himself fighting against sinking to his knees in despair.


	5. Heal

It's strange, really. For two full vorns, I'd been in the Council chambers, the meeting rooms, standing alone before the Decepticon high command; arguing, bartering, brokering for peace. I believe, very strongly, in the Autobot ideals, and from that, I draw my biggest strength - I believe strong, I speak strong, and I have enough force of personality to make others believe as well.

But as a Council Liaison, I am, at base programming, a pacifist and an idealist. Even after full-blown war was declared, I truly never believed that things would reach the level one hears about in the old history files, that I would have to look over my shoulder at every moment, waiting for an attack.

Reality was brought home to me in a rather painful way.

I hid behind the shattered remains of a wall, pressed against the seamed metal and listening to everything go to the Pit around me. A Decepticon strike force had targeted the Prime's transport, blowing the vehicle right off the raised roadway and separating it from the escort. And as the Prime's liaison to the High Council, I was in that transport.

I don't think the Decepticons had expected most of the passengers to come out shooting. Ironhide was the first into the fray, blasting the crumpled side of the transport open before the Decepticons could get close enough to open it themselves. The Prime followed his bodyguard closely, grim-faced and furious, looking little like his usual, peaceful self. The Prime's tactician grabbed my arm in the hand not formed into a cannon, shooting back over his shoulder as he dragged me out of the line of fire. 

"Stay here," Prowl had ordered, shoving me behind a pile of twisted metal that had been damaged in the explosion that took us off the road. I knew next to nothing of battle tactics, but I am far from stupid, and I followed his orders without complaint, crouching down to present myself as a smaller target. Prowl didn't say anything more, jumping the wall and diving back into the battle.

I looked around, as Ironhide had instructed me once, noting landmarks in case it was up to me to call in for emergency help. We were in one of Iacon's marketplaces, and the wall I hid behind had belonged to a warehouse of some sort. Every civilian in the area, as far as I could see, had evacuated.

Already, I was calculating, testing and discarding speech fragments, determining how I was going to present this new development to the Council. Curiosity and a wish for as accurate a description as I could manage drove me into peeking around my shield at the fight, at the six or seven smaller Decepticons against the great forms of Ironhide and Optimus Prime, and the small, fast shape that was Prowl.

It was easy to see that Optimus was not the main target. These Decepticons didn't want the Prime dead, but weakened, his two main supports in the form of his tactician and his Bodyguard taken out from beneath him. I was extraneous, a civilian, useless in this war, meaningless to the Decepticons. What did it matter that I could rouse a room of other civilians into a patriotic frenzy when laser fire scored the ground around me?

Even as I watched, a broken slab of metal shifted under Prowl's feet. The tactician stumbled, brief but enough. The shot caught him full in the side, lifting the small mech right off the ground and slamming him back. Optimus and Ironhide immediately changed tactics, from offensive to defensive, shifting to shield their fallen friend. They backed up, side by side, waited a moment, then Optimus turned and scooped up Prowl in both arms, running towards my hiding place while Ironhide covered them both. 

Prowl was still conscious when Optimus set him down, his own hand buried deep in the gaping hole in his side. The Prime left again, joining Ironhide outside of the broken warehouse, and I shook off the uneasy idea of another Decepticon creeping through the empty structure, stalking us. Prowl's optics were flickering alarmingly, and I knelt at his side. "Go into stasis, idiot," I hissed at him. "Save your energy."

"No," he rasped, shaking his head. "Loss of hydraulics right now would be disastrous." I opened my mouth to ask him what the slag he was talking about, when I saw. The hand in his abdomen was closed around a doubled-over main energon line, and above his clenched fist, in the fold of the line, was a gaping tear. It didn't take a medic to know that such a rend would be fatal if not closed off. If he were to off-line now, his hand would relax, and his energon reserves would be empty within a breem.

I rose up to look outside again. Help was on the way, Prowl had been calling in the emergency as soon as the first explosion had hit, but the main highroad now had a gaping hole in it, and help was still breems away. Optimus and Ironhide were under heavy fire, and another gun would be useful. I looked down at Prowl. "If that was closed off," I asked, a glimmer of an idea forming in my mind. "Do you think you could shoot?"

"Hm. Possibly," he said, flexing his free hand. "Yes, I think so. Are you going to hold it shut?"

"Not quite," I muttered, dropping back down beside him. He would need his mobility, and having me cling to his waist would be a hindrance. I tapped into the Network, skipping past the usual Councilor databanks and into the huge databanks of Configurations.

I wasn't designed for this, for reconfiguring my body into anything but a single alternate mode. My hands lacked the additions many had, the high-strength hydraulics or multi-suites of tools, or even the power supplies for a weapon that could be converted into a welder. But a simple clamp fit my specs, and my hand shifted into a two-pronged pincer.

Prowl watched me quietly as I cast about, looking for a suitable piece of metal to use as a crimp. They only thing around me, however, was heavy building iron, too hard and brittle to bend with the strength I had. No useful metal - except us. I let out a curse and started prying at the plating on my leg.

"Senator!" Prowl's voice was shocked, and his free hand grabbed my wrist. "Senator, that is unnecess-"

"Shut up," I growled, shaking off his grip. "The Prime and Ironhide need help, and I don't have any weaponry." I glared at him, wedging my new tool under the decorative plating on my shin. "My 'armor' won't protect me if I'm hit. Better to use it for something that can get us out of here alive." The plating came off with a screech of metal and a flash of pain across my sensors. Ignoring the warnings flashing across my vision, I started on the matching piece on the other leg. 

Prowl still looked unhappy at my actions, but he complied, shifting his hand up to pinch off the line as close to the tear as he could. I bent the slats in half, praying that the metal wasn't too brittle to not snap, and I slid the first bend around the tubing in Prowl's abdomen, carefully applying pressure.

A medic was probably going to frag me later, but the metal bent willingly enough, closing on the energon line. I tried to keep the pressure even, shifting the pincer across the crimp, and when Prowl let go on that side, the crimp held. I sent up a short whisper of thanks to Primus, then started on the other side.

Prowl was steady, despite the discomfort he must've been in. My own shins were shrieking at me, and I made a note to ask Ironhide to teach me how to reroute pain signals to a subprocess, instead of letting them sit in my main processor and scream. The second crimp also held, and before I would let Prowl up, I pulled one of the flared decorations off my shoulder, clenching a fist for a moment to overcome pain-induced trembling before I bent the piece around the crimps in a protective cocoon of lovely, nigh-useless metal. Prowl flexed his torso, nodding in approval as the repairs held, and his hand was already twisting back into his cannon as he stood and made his way carefully around the wall. I watched, sick worry and pride on my spark as Prowl rejoined the battle, and I wondered that maybe I wasn't so useless, after all.

o o o

Optimus Prime glanced up at me as I walked into his office, giving me a short nod as he finished writing on a datapad. I waited until he set the pad down before I spoke. "I am going to undergo medic training."

Optimus raised an optic ridge, sitting back in his seat. "You are resigning your post as Council Liaison?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Not if you wish me to keep it," I replied. "My Prime, the very fact that this war has begun proves that positions such as mine are obsolete. I am no warrior, am not fit to become a soldier. I could not prevent the damage that will be done, but I can help heal it."

Optimus looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. "I can understand the sentiment," he said. "You have my support, Senator Re-"

I held up my hand, forestalling him. "My designation has also changed," I stated. It had been the medic I had sworn my new vows to, who claimed that my original designation was too pretentious for a medic. Optimus gave me a curious look, and I squared my shoulders, taking a strange pride in my new name, my new purpose. "I am now known as Ratchet."


	6. Trouble Lurking

I had been in the Autobot headquarters for almost three orns when I found the other intruder.

I was the kind of mech that drove the security types into full system crashes. The most heavily guarded buildings were my playgrounds, the most secure vaults my toys. But what sent Security into a real fritz was that I never touched anything, never took anything or destroyed anything, and many a logic circuit has crashed trying to figure out _why_.

I guess boredom never crossed their processors.

But even if they couldn't get enough slag on me from my casual breaking into the Council Chambers or the Academy or the high, vaulted chamber where the Allspark rested, I still had a nice-sized record from doing mercenary work with idiots that managed to get me caught or identified.

That record was why I was in the Autobot HQ, soon after the start of the War. I wanted to join the Autobots, but I had enough on me that the Prime's security forces would throw my aft in the brig as soon as they laid optics on me. It never hurt to bring a gift if you were showing up at the party uninvited, and I planned on bringing a rather nice one - I was logging every unguarded, unknown entrance into the Autobot base of operations that I could find.

And there were a _lot_ of them. The problem with Prime's security was that a lot of 'em were big - real big. And big mechs had a tendency to - literally and figuratively - overlook the little ones like me. If there was a Seeker attack, the place would be fine. A siege? Fine.

A little minibot sliding into the spaces between the walls? _Incredibly_ vulnerable.

If all went well, their gratitude over revealing a few vital flaws in their security net would balance out the urge to step on me. I was almost done with my 'research' when I came within a tick of running face first into a Decepticon.

He was creeping around the upper levels between floors, dead silent as he moved between support beams. Even I didn't hear him, and when I moved around a pipe, I almost crashed into his flank. But he didn't see _me_ , and I immediately started to follow him. He was flat black, and I couldn't see an insignia, but I didn't have to. There was no reason an Autobot (as opposed to an Autobot hopeful like myself) would be sneaking around up here.

He seemed to know where he was going, moving through the building at a slow, easy pace. He didn't look around once, didn't scan his surroundings, smug confidence in his every move. Idiot. He was probably buzzed on the honor of being chosen for this mission.

Pathetic, if you ask me. Gave a bad name to good intruders.

He stopped after a few breems, and I felt the cool tingle of heavy electromagnetic shielding go up. My fellow invader fell off every sensor I had that wasn't direct sight. A nice trick, one I'd used myself in the past, but useless if you were in sight already. I didn't bother with my own shields, not only because he would feel he go up, but because he wasn't even thinking about scanning his immediate area.

Idiot!

He sat in the dark for long breems, and I sat just beside him, a few tacks behind and to his left, and I could just barely see the edge of the violet Decepticon insignia on the inside armor of his leg. After a while, I felt a scan from the room below just barely brush the edge of my sensor net. I must've been above the room beside the one with whoever was scanning. The scan signal dropped, and movement came from the room, the sounds of a large mech crossing the floor. More shuffling, then silence.

Finally, my friend in the darkness moved, sliding long, narrow fingers into a crack in the ceiling of the room below to pry open a panel of metal. I crept forward as the 'Con noiselessly dropped through his impromptu door, and what I saw made my valves seize. The Prime himself, resting on a recharge berth, optics dark and unaware, and the Decepticon was sliding a blade out from under his armor. I felt a hot flash of anger - towards Autobot security for allowing this to happen, towards the Prime, for not having any idea how close to death he was. But most of it was towards the arrogant idiot of a Decepticon, so with a wild shriek, I dove out of my hiding spot and latched onto his shoulders.

I caught a glimpse of the Prime jolting into awareness, heard the thundering footsteps of the Prime's Guards, but all my attention was on the Decepticon. He was taller than I was, tall and narrow, and I clung to him like a magnet, clawed fingers digging into his helm, toes buried up to the second joint in his waist. He didn't speak, but spun like a turbine, trying to throw me off. I held on, somehow, trying to get my fingers at his optics or the energon lines in his neck.

The high whine of charging weaponry went almost unnoticed. However, I sure as slag noticed when high-percussion blasts slammed into the assassin and my left leg. The Decepticon's shields collapsed inward, and with me being in the radius, the drop sent white noise across my sensors. Hands grabbed me - big ones - and when I blinked back the interference, we were both in the custody of a few _very_ large mechs.

The Decepticon was fast dealt with, sent to the brig as soon as his insignia was revealed. I, of course, had no insignia, so after the 'Con was dragged away, I found myself in front of Optimus Prime himself.

Primus, he was tall.

His personal bodyguard wasn't quite as tall, but almost as imposing as he pressed a finger against the side of my helm - reading my signal, cross-referencing it with Iacon's records, and he gave a disgusted snort. "Mercenary," he growled at the Prime. "And he has a habit of being where he shouldn't be. You should see his record."

"Which is why I was in the ceiling," I interjected cheerfully. I ignored the glower the Guard gave me, looking at the Prime. "I want to join the Autobots, but a record like mine'll land me in the brig for vorns. So, I want to make a bargain."

The Guard made another annoyed sound, but the Prime was considering me thoughtfully. "Stopping that assassin was your bargaining chip?" he questioned.

"Nope, I found him snooping, and he just proves that what I offer has worth." I jerked my head at the ceiling. "How'd he get in, hm? You've got minibot-sized boltholes all over the place. I was cataloging as many as I could find as my bargaining chip." I looked at the Guard. "Clear my record, and the information is yours." Back at the Prime. "Let me join, and my 'habit' of being where I'm not supposed to be is yours to command."

The Prime and his Guard shared a look, then looked back at me. "What's your designation?" the Prime asked.

"Jazz." Not my _original_ designation, but it was the one I liked best and the one I went by most often.

The Prime nodded. "Jazz," he repeated. "All right, Jazz, you're going to the brig. When you get out - however you chose to do so - you're an Autobot." The Guard and I both gave the Prime a disbelieving look, one alarmed, one amazed. "At that time, you'll hand over the information you collected, and your record will be cleared."

The Prime had bolts, that was certain. I couldn't help a laugh. "I'll see you by this time tomorrow," I promised. 

"I look forward to it," he replied, then nodded to the mech's holding my arms. "Escort him to the brig."


	7. Last Hope

Optimus Prime didn't struggle as his captors led him up a narrow staircase. He'd already tested his strength against them, but injury and exhaustion weakened him. Besides, they were underground, in a stone throat with Decepticons at the entrance, and probably more at the end. Where could he go, if he did escape? Instead, he conserved his strength, keeping as alert as he could with about half of his sensor arrays and all of his communications arrays crudely disabled. The stairs ended at a broad plateau under a sky of fire. A landscape shattered by war stretched out below them, the ground cracked and littered with the rubble of buildings and bodies. Optimus shuttered his optics briefly against the sight.

When he onlined his optics again, they settled on a lone figure, standing at the edge of the plateau with his arms stretched wide, as if inviting the blasted lands into his embrace. "Look at it," Megatron whispered as Optimus was pulled up behind him. "This was once a center for the arts, a place where painters and sculptors and musicians could meet and share their crafts. And now, it is a place of death." He looked back over his shoulder at Optimus, optics smoldering. "I wonder," he added softly. "If it would still be standing today, had you not turned your back on me."

Optimus gave Megatron a cold look. "I'm sure it would still be standing," he said "Had you not gone insane with power and declared war on me."

"I assure you, I am perfectly sane," Megatron said, turning to face his brother fully. "How is wanting the best for my people insanity?"

Optimus looked past Megatron, to where the corpses of Autobots were strung up from the remains of a tower. "This is sane?"

"This," Megatron said with a sweep of his arm. "Is solely your fault. Had you joined me in the beginning, Prime, had you stood by my side as we had always been, had you stood up to the Council and helped me carve a new path for Cybertron, instead of betraying both me and our people, none of this would have happened."

"No," Optimus countered. "It would spread outward instead of in, to countless other worlds, and Cybertron would glut itself on the spoils of a thousand peoples."

Megatron gave him a disgusted look. "You hold sympathy for the pathetically inferior creatures of other worlds, while your own suffer from a war you caused. And you call me insane?"

"I would rather die than see Cybertron turn into a world of tyrants," Optimus said firmly. "And since there are those who stand with me, I don't think 'our people' feel as betrayed by my actions as you do."

"I would grant you that wish," Megatron sneered. "Except I need the location of the Allspark, and if I killed you, I would not be able to guarantee that what I retrieved from your memory banks is uncorrupted. So, why don't you just tell me, and make this all a lot simpler?" At the emotionless look Optimus gave him, Megatron laughed. "No? I suppose I could torture you, but you always did have an impossible will. Very well. I know how to hurt you without even laying a hand on you."

Megatron turned, looking out over the broken landscape, seeming to search for something. "Ah, there," he pointed. Optimus followed his gesture, almost unwillingly, and saw a mech straggling across the uneven ground. "One of yours," Megatron said, stooping to pick up a long, jagged spike of metal from the ground beside him. "You can send out hundreds to die in battle, but can you sentence that one mech to death, right here? Can you look at him, right now, and let him die? Once, I know, you could not. Have you grown stronger since then?" He positioned himself on the cliff edge and cocked the spike back to his shoulder to throw.

"No!" 

The word escaped Optimus before he could help it, and he surged forward against the hands restraining him. He was hauled back, and Megatron smiled back at him. "No?" he asked. "Well, I'm afraid I need a little more than that. Tell me where the Allspark is, and I'll let him live."

Optimus looked down at the injured mech, who had stumbled to a knee and was slowly pulling himself upright. "You know I won't do that," he said, his voice too quiet and tight in his audials.

"Prime, I have no idea what you will and won't do," Megatron said frankly. "But I intend to find out. The Allspark or the mech? Pick quickly."

"Primus, forgive me," Optimus muttered, shuttering his optics again and turning his head away. But, no, he owed it to the mech, to witness his demise. He looked at Megatron, forcing his voice to remain steady. "I won't give you the Allspark," he said.

Megatron snapped his arm forward. The spike flew, unwavering, and pierced the mech's torso. His death cry reached all the way up to them and Megatron turned, laughing and, surely, insane. "Very good, Prime!" he said, jovially. "Very good! You're not nearly as weakened by the pain of others as you were. But you're still not strong enough, no." He turned to one of the other mechs. "Lock him up," he ordered. "Then I want every Autobot prisoner we have brought here. Maybe torture won't work on our dear Prime, but I'm sure after a few dozen prisoners begging him to end their torment, he'll come around. He-"

Megatron's words were interrupted by cannon fire. The mech on Optimus' left went down, and he twisted, jamming his sword into the one on his right. The mech cried out, brilliant energon spilling over armor and fingers, then Megatron grabbed Optimus and they both went spinning, falling, over the plateau edge.

Megatron arrested his own fall, fingers and toes digging into the cliff face, but Optimus lacked the sharp claws on his limbs his brother had. He tried anyway, his fingers slipping uselessly on the rough surface, and the ground below raced up to meet him.

Strong hands caught him, an Autobot Seeker he didn't know by name swooping upwards with him in tow, engines straining with his added weight. The Seeker couldn't take him too far; he was too massive, but they went far enough, and when the Seeker set him down, he was surrounded by familiar faces. Hands tended to him, re-connecting sensors and communications - Ratchet? - as others provided cover fire against the Decepticon Seekers overhead - Ironhide, and Bluestreak, and was that Inferno? - and still others were urging him to transform and follow them out - Jazz, he recognized, who was the yellow mech? - another stone hall beneath the ground, this one Decepticon free and in the direction of home. He followed Jazz and the yellow stranger, the others closing in behind to guard the rear and, from the sounds of it, collapse the tunnel behind them to ward off pursuit.

"Ironhide," he said over the sounds of falling stone and revving engines. "You moved the AllSpark?"

"As soon as you were captured, Prime," his bodyguard replied. 

"Good." Even if he had told Megatron anything, it would have been wrong. "Take me there."

o o o

Ultra Magnus stood at the doorway of the hastily made chamber where the Allspark now rested, his arms folded and his optics on his commander. Optimus Prime knelt before the great artifact, utterly still and looking up at it with an expression that was almost serene. "How long has he been in there?" he asked quietly, loathing to break the silence and disturb the Prime.

"Two orns," Ironhide replied, sounding somewhat cross. "He didn't even let anyone repair him first - not that he needed it, the Cube itself repaired him when he went in - he didn't talk to anyone, he just went in there and, I don't know, started praying?"

"No," Ultra Magnus murmured. He had once been the Prime's assistant in matters of worship in general and the Allspark in particular, before war made him a general instead of a priest. "I've seen him at prayer, public and private; I've seen him asking both Primus and the Cube for a blessing, I've seen him preaching. This..." he made a vague motion with one hand. "This is new. Almost like..."

"Like he's talking straight to the Cube," Ironhide finished. Ultra Magnus nodded and they fell silent again. After a few breems, Ironhide shifted on his pedes, looking up at the general. "Magnus, I don't like this," he admitted. "I don't like the way he looked after we rescued him, and I sure don't like the thought of him in there, energon deprived and doing Primus-knows-what with the Cube."

"The AllSpark takes care of its children," Ultra Magnus replied. "Those of us who worked in the temple never had need of energon, or repairs, or even upgrades. Health-wise, he will be fine. Mentally..." It was his turn to shift; uncomfortable with the topic with anyone from outside of the temple, but Ironhide was the Prime's closest friend. 

"None of us could speak with the Cube," he continued finally. "Those of us that dared try and force it went mad. Only the Prime could, because of the Matrix or so we thought, and even then, not for long. Spark a few sparklings, maybe, or the traditional blessing at the turn of the vorn, but it left him shaken and quiet for a few orns." Ironhide nodded, familiar with the Prime's moods in the orns after being in contact with the Cube. "As far as I know, no one has been in the Cube's direct presence like this, for a straight stretch, as long as he has. I... I do not like it, either, but I will not disturb him. I will share the watch with you, half an orn each, until he moves. When he does, you and I will handle what happens, and we will not involve anyone else until we are sure it is necessary - or safe."

Ironhide nodded again, looking less cross and more worried now. Ultra Magnus clapped him on the shoulder firmly. "Get some rest," he ordered gently. "And leave it in the hands of Primus."

o o o

Optimus Prime didn't move the next orn or the orn after that. In all, it was eight orns later, when Ironhide was walking up to relieve Ultra Magnus, that he finally stood, fluid-smooth as if he hadn't been in the same position for ten orns. Ironhide and Ultra Magnus waited at the door, tense but unwilling to enter the chamber, as he crossed the floor towards them. 

"I want all of the high command here," he said, strong and true, not like he did as an army leader, but the way he used to speak as the high priest of Primus. His optics, however, focused somewhere far beyond what was visible and Ultra Magnus wondered if he was still in communications with the Cube, even now. He seemed to thrum with power, a ringing buzz not quite audible, and nothing like anything Ultra Magnus had ever witnessed. "All physically. What I have to say cannot go out over vid-feed, no matter how secure."

"I can have them all here tomorrow, first thing," Ultra Magnus replied. 

"Make it so." 

They moved out of his way as he swept between them, regal and seeming to not exactly exist on the same plane of reality everyone else did. Ultra Magnus thought about reaching out and touching him, making sure he was still there, but he feared, deep down, that the Prime's strange power would burn his mind to cinders. Ironhide almost did reach out, stopping just shy of azure armor before pulling back. "Optimus?" he said instead.

The Prime turned. Calm optics took in the both of them, slowly, as if re-memorizing their features. "Yes?"

"Are you-" Ultra Magnus had never heard Ironhide stumble over his words before. "Is everything all right?"

Optimus smiled a little, and just like that, it was like he was back, sort of, no longer so much an avatar of the Cube's power than the Prime they knew so well. "It will be," he replied.

o o o

Ironhide was fairly certain the Autobot High Command had never had a full physical gathering in the entire course of the war. Someone was always on the other side of the planet, or injured to the point of forced stasis, or up to their spark plugs in Decepticons, or any one of a dozen other equally viable excuses. But he and Ultra Magnus had brooked no arguments, sending out missives and escorts and, in one case, gone out themselves and physically hauled someone back to the base.

Now, an almost-too-small cavern in the base buzzed with low conversation, theories shared and rumors circulated. Just as everyone was starting to get restless, the door opened to admit the last member of the party - Optimus Prime.

Ironhide eyed his friend carefully. The strange energy and bearing the Prime had been infused with the orn before had faded, replaced by stony determination and - maybe? - hesitance. He's doubting, Ironhide realized. He's doubting that, whatever the AllSpark told him, it's right. His spark felt like lead. If Optimus was worried over what he was about to say, it usually was because the rest of them really wouldn't like his words. 

The room was deathly silent, all optics on the Prime. He looked around, marking each face turned towards his. "I thank you all," he said, moving through the crowd towards the middle of the room. "For coming on such short notice. But I may know how to end this war as we know it, and I will not risk the Decepticons catching us."

Sharp exclamations of surprise, quickly silenced. Optimus looked around again. "You all know what I am," he said, spreading his hands. "The Bearer of the Matrix, the Chosen Child of Primus, the Warden of the Allspark. I have spoke to the Allspark many times, asking for sparklings or a blessing. Never have I laid myself open to the Allspark's power. 'It would be madness', I thought. 'It would break me, as it broke so many before me'. But I know now, where they went wrong." His optics caught Ultra Magnus, and he gave a slight nod. "Any before me, who sought to control the Cube, tried to force it to their will. I always asked, the way I'd ask any of you for a favor, and thus was spared losing my mind. But several orns ago, I gave myself whole to the Cube. I placed myself in its metaphorical hands, and bowed myself to its will. And it spoke to me."

Optimus always did have a flair for the dramatic. He paused just long enough for his words to sink in and for the others to start asking questions before he raised a hand for silence again. "It showed me many paths," he continued. "Many ways this war could end, and too many ended in the death of our kind. If we allow the Decepticons to gain the Allspark, we will perish. And if we remain here, they will gain it. I did not need the Allspark to tell me this - they grow ever bolder, ever more ruthless. They have roused us from every safe haven we have found, they have destroyed countless miles of land to dig us from our bolt-holes, and we cannot stand before them as we are now. They will flush us out, and they will take the Allspark for their own."

"Are you saying it's hopeless?" someone blurted in disbelief.

"No," Optimus replied heavily. "I am saying that the Allspark cannot remain on Cybertron."

The room erupted into outrage, and confusion, and fear. "We can't do that!" Wheeljack called out, louder than the rest. "Cybertron will die!"

Harsh agreement, and everyone turned angry optics back to the Prime. "Cybertron will not die," he said firmly. "The Cube does not sustain this planet, nor does it sustain us. It gave us life, but it does not keep us alive. And if it stays here, Cybertron will die, torn apart by this war." He met the angry looks evenly. "I will not let our people die," he said. "But as long as the Allspark remains on Cybertron, we will continue to be hunted. We must turn their attentions."

"And how will that help?" Prowl asked coolly. "Even if we hide the Allspark on another planet, they will still hunt us, until they find a mech who knows something."

"Then we shall just have to ensure none of us know where it will end up," Optimus countered.

Brief silence. "The Cardak Wormhole," Perceptor said suddenly. He looked around, apologetic. "Cybertron's orbit brings us close to it once a vorn. This end of it is stable, but its other end changes every three astro seconds. If we launch the Cube into it, the only mech who will follow it is one latched onto the Cube itself."

"Oh, sure," Jazz said sarcastically. "Let's just launch it out Primus-knows where."

"If we do," Prowl said reluctantly. "The probability of the Decepticons finding it is much slimmer than the probability that they will take it from us if we keep it here." He gave Optimus a hard look. "But the probability of finding it ourselves is just as slim."

"But with the bulk of the Decepticons out searching," Optimus said. "Most of the Autobots as well, for that matter, Cybertron will get a chance to heal some of the damage our war has caused. Finding the Allspark will not be easy. But it can be done. I understand that what I am asking of you all is difficult. But I fear it must be done, to protect our kind, and those that would suffer if the Decepticons win this war."

Another measured silence, longer than the others. "We can use the temple at Tyger Pax," Prowl said, musingly. "It's large enough to hold the Allspark, and to build a launcher beneath it."

"A launcher wouldn't be difficult," Wheeljack piped up.

"The Allspark has a unique signature," Blaster added. "If we find even a trace of it, we can follow it."

"Are we seriously considering this?" Jazz demanded.

"Are we?" Optimus asked, looking each mech in the optics. "Are we truly? We are taking a chance with this, that we will never find the Cube. Are all of you willing to risk this?"

"I am," Ultra Magnus said, the first words he'd spoken that orn. He walked through the group, coming to a stop before Optimus. "I cannot imagine," he said wryly. "What it is like, to bare all before the Allspark as you did. But I trust it's will, and I trust you to interpret it correctly." He gave a low bow, the sweeping deference of a priest before the Prime.

Optimus dropped a hand to Ultra Magnus' shoulder and gave it a brief squeeze. "Any others?"

"Count me in, Prime," Ironhide called from his spot, leaning against a wall.

"Me, too," Ratchet added.

"And me."

"I'm in."

"We're slagged anyway, so, why not?"

"May as well."

"Let's do this."

Optimus arched a ridge at Jazz, who remained silent. "I won't force you," he said.

Jazz shrugged. "Slaggit, I'm in," he sighed. "I'm goin' to the Pit, anyway, may as well help all of you along, too."

"That's the spirit," Blaster said cheerfully, curling a hand around the smaller mech's shoulders. 

As the mechs around him started discussing what would have to be done, Optimus took a brief moment to shutter his optics and mouth a quick prayer. Primus, please guide us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on Cybertron's religion: Take Joan of Arc. Now, imagine if she had become both President and Pope. That's the kind of role I imagine Optimus Prime holding within Cybertron's society; a leader of both a government and religious type, a person who has a closer link to God than most, and one who has no right to be leading an army but does a damned good job, anyway. 
> 
> I am fascinated by religions, and the roles they play in our lives. I apologize if any of my readers are uncomfortable with the subject of religion in fanfiction about giant alien robots, but you'll have to take that up with the muse, 'cause I'm just the messenger.


	8. Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _'...it is a little known fact that it was a shot fired by HARDTOP that took away his AUTOBOT enemy’s ability to speak without pain.' ~ From the Scout Class Hardtop figure._

"What do we have here?"

Bumblebee looked up from where he lay sprawled across a pile of debris and his own internal fluids, his broken vocal components screaming at him as he moved his neck. Across the part-strewn ground, a slim mech stood, considering him thoughtfully.

Hardtop. Were he capable, Bumblebee would have groaned. They were both in the same field; scouts, spies, assassins, and they had butted heads on more than one occasion. Their last encounter had left Hardtop injured and humiliated, and Decepticons thrived on vengeance and all of a sudden Bumblebee _knew_ he was in danger of more than death by energon loss.

The Decepticon circled around him once, a slow stalk, and Bumblebee moved his head as much as he could stand to keep him in sight. "Do you know," Hardtop asked conversationally as he prowled around the downed Autobot. "What the problem with Megatron is?" Bumblebee figured that he could speak for about three orns on that topic, were he whole, so he glared at Hardtop instead. 

Hardtop smiled as if he knew what Bumblebee was thinking. "He doesn't think far enough ahead," he continued. "Not with his punishments. Because, you see, just ripping out something is repairable. Given enough time and energon, or access to a good medic, your systems will repair the damage and re-grow the missing parts. But I..." 

He paused and knelt to pick something up, and Bumblebee's optics cycled when he recognized the object as the shattered remains of his own vocal capacitors, that Megatron had ripped out and tossed aside. "I know that if you're quick enough in returning the parts that are removed, your body recognizes them as yours and will accept that they are now where they belong, even if they're not _exactly_ where they were before."

No. No, no, _no_. Bumblebee tried to get up, to flee, but his body was unresponsive, his limbs all but welded to the ground by exhaustion and energon loss. He could only stare as Hardtop walked up to him with a fistful of twisted, broken wires and a vicious, sickening grin. The Decepticon straddled his chest, one foot pinning down his remaining arm. His empty hand became a soldering iron, a typical scout tool, and he touched it to the ends of the wires he held, softening the tips to make a better connection. "I think you dropped this, Autobot," he hissed, optics pinpoints of harsh light, and a hand jerked back Bumblebee’s head as the other slammed the vocal capacitor back into his throat.

Bumblebee tried to scream as he bucked and writhed, trying to escape the horribly _wrong_ pain in his neck as his body recognized the parts as his own and accepted them as reinstalled. The soldering iron jabbed in again and again, forcing connections and welding wires to struts to tubing to everything and over it all swam Hardtop's smug, satisfied smile.

It seemed an eternity before Hardtop sat back, surveying his work. Wisps of smoke and flakes of charred metal rose from the tortured wound in Bumblebee's neck, and the Decepticon smiled anew at the sight. "See you in the field," he said casually, getting up and leaving the pain-wracked Autobot behind. Bumblebee stared at the retreating back, shaking in pain and bitter hatred.

Things had just gotten personal.


	9. Smile

Jazz was sitting in the middle of the crater, covered in lunar dust to hide his natural sheen from any passing human satellites. He hadn't moved in orns, and wouldn't answer any attempts at communication on the usual channels, and while Ratchet certainly trusted Jazz with his life, he didn't put _near_ as much faith in the lieutenants common sense or sense of self-preservation. 

"There isn't another human satellite due past for another three megacycles," Ironhide said, walking up beside the medic at the Ark's bay door. "If you want to go check on him."

Ratchet made a short noise of thanks before stepping out into the crater, passing from the shadow of the rock that hid the Ark and into brilliant sunlight. Jazz didn't look up as Ratchet approached, Ironhide not far behind. Nothing particularly strange showed on any of Ratchet's scans, only that Jazz's body was in a low-power consuming mode, while his processors were in just shy of overdrive, a not-uncommon state for the small mech.

The two circled around the seated figure to stand in front of him, and that's when they noticed Jazz's expression - blissful, just shy of ecstatic, expressive plating twisted into something that as near expressed pure joy as Ratchet had ever seen. He looked positively blitzed, like a youngling immediately after his first overload or his first taste of high-grade, and Ratchet was at an utter loss as to the cause.

Concerned, Ratchet crouched in front of Jazz, directly in the line of sight of unseeing blue optics. "Jazz?" He tried again, on a higher channel, officer to officer, the thin lunar air unsuitable to conducting sound. Ironhide heard too, he knew, and Optimus was probably listening in by now, alerted. "Jazz, what in the name of Primus has gotten into you?"

The answer was unexpected enough to make Ratchet's head reel, and he fell back on his aft with a thump and a puff of moon dust. Music - unfamiliar, strangely liquid, but undeniable - assaulted his processors over the channel, and even if Ratchet didn't understand the language, the raw emotion contained in the sound was enough to make his spark ache in resonance.

After a moment, the force of the sound was dulled, pushed back, and Jazz spoke aloud, the thin atmosphere no hindrance to the utter reverence in his voice. "Three thousand languages," he said, "Each one unique, each one different. And each one, every single language and dialect and accent, has its own music." His optics focused on Ratchet with unconcealed delight. "Their race is less than a megavorn old, and they have _millions_ of songs."

Ironhide snorted from somewhere over Ratchet's head. "And here I thought you were doing research on the _humans_ , not their music."

"Best way to understand a race is through their songs," Jazz replied, his optics focusing inward again. "Don't wait up for me, doc, I'll be out here for a while."

"Don't overdo it," Ratchet warned, clambering to his feet, but he knew his warnings would go unheard. Millions of songs; Jazz would sit and tap into the Earth satellites and listen until his central processor melted. He'd probably have to send Ironhide out here in a groon to physically haul Jazz back into the Ark to recharge. Shaking his head, his processor still ringing with the emotive force behind the music he'd heard, Ratchet turned and went back to the Ark.


	10. Questioning

Despite knowing that the Decepticons were probably tracking them down with Autoboticide on the mind, and that his human charge was still bleeding on his seat from scratches on his arms, Bumblebee couldn't help but be happy. Four years, even to one as old as he was, was still a long time to be separated from his team. He could feel the earth rumble beneath his tires from the passing of his larger companions, and the familiar sensation was downright soothing.

/ _Bumblebee_ /

And he was within direct radio contact distance again, too, even if he couldn't speak. / _Yeah, Ironhide?_ /

There was a moment’s hesitance from the big truck. / _What the slag is a 'tooth fairy'?_ /

Unfamiliar, that term. Bumblebee turned towards the apparently all-knowing Google, tapping into the nearest Sprint tower for internet access. Images scrolled across his processor, most of a thin, winged human female (or a fat, winged human male) carrying a stick with either a molar or a star attached to the top. Wondering what could have possibly raised Ironhide's interest in such a thing, he sent a few of the more informative links to the truck.

/ _Okay_ / And though little emotion could be sent over the simpler connections, Ironhide sounded downright disturbed. / _Now, why would a human sparkling ask me if_ I _was the tooth fairy?_ /


	11. Kick in the Grill

/ _Optimus!_ /

Bumblebee stared at the approaching black vehicles in anger and alarm. / _Optimus, those are the humans who have been chasing me_ / he transmitted. / _I'm sure of it!_ /

"Slaggit, what do they want?" Jazz muttered, peering around a tree at the SUV's. "Do they know where you are, got a transmitter on you?"

"Bumblebee has no transmitter on him," Ratchet affirmed. "I checked as soon as I could, after his reports. I think they're just tenacious."

/ _Sam_ / Bumblebee realized. / _I think he might have told the local law enforcement about seeing me last night._ Those _humans must've read the reports. And you guys weren't all that quiet about your arrival, either. They suspect_ /

"Let's give them something to suspect, then," Ironhide said, grimly eager.

"No," Optimus said firmly. "Autobots, fall back, to the alley where we arrived. We will watch from a distance."

"As soon as they leave, we get the kid and bounce," Jazz said, slipping behind the garage. "I saw him get the glasses."

A nod from Optimus, then they transformed, waiting silent and dark in the alley, all sensors aimed at the house. / _Jazz?_ / Optimus prodded, knowing the spy had the highest sensitivity of the group.

/ _Questioning the family_ / Jazz sent to them all. / _And the girl. The ones outside are poking around and -SLAG! Optimus, they're taking them prisoner!_ /

/WHAT?/ Optimus' engine revved, and he circled the block, followed closely by the others, just in time to see the SUV's pull away from the house, splitting into two groups.

/ _This way_ / Bumblebee said, swerving in front of the Prime and taking off. / _They're headed south out of town, I'd put credits on it. I think their base is in the desert somewhere. I know a short cut that'll get us in front of them_ /

They cut through side streets and alleys, a strange convoy to be rolling through a residential area in the middle of the night. / _Anyone have a plan of attack?_ / Jazz asked. / _Or do we just dive in, Ironhide style, and scrape up the leftovers later?_ /

/ _I have an idea_ / Optimus said, and though the radio transmissions conducted little emotion, he sounded tight and quiet. / _Ratchet, how much force is required to do any kind of injury to the human structure?_ /

Had they been in bipedal form, Ratchet would have given his leader a quizzical look. Instead, there was a brief pause before the medic transmitted the requested information, multiple charts detailing sharp damage and bludgeoning damage and damage from fire and chemicals and age and fitness level. 

/ _Thank you. Bumblebee, I need you to get us ahead of them, and right in their path_ /

/ _Right_ / The scout took a turn and stopped, engine idling, at one end of a bridge. Below them was the highway. / _They should be along here any minute now_ /

"Wait here for my signal," Optimus said aloud, standing and making his way down the embankment. He crouched beside the bridge, peeking beneath the supports back down the highway.

Soon enough, one of the SUV caravans came into sight. As soon as the lead car passed beneath the bridge, Optimus stood and gave it a swift kick. Carefully measured force crumpled the vehicle's front end, and the Autobots still on the bridge could hear the occupants scream in alarm. Optimus strode over to the SUV and calmly picked it up by the roof, giving it a sharp shake to tear the roof free and toss it aside.

"He is _so_ torqued," Jazz said gleefully. The others agreed.

"Taking the children," Optimus Prime said, cold anger underlying his voice as he towered above the humans. "Was a bad move. Autobots, relieve them of their weapons."


	12. Breaking the Rules

Article 89 - Disrespect towards superior commissioned officer.

Article 90 - Willfully disobeying a superior commissioned officer.

Article 92 - Failure to obey order.

Article 94 - Mutiny.

Article 96 - Releasing a prisoner without proper authority.

Article 117 - Provoking speech or gestures.

Article 127 - Extortion.

Article 133 - Conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.

He knew the UCMJ - the Uniform Code of Military Justice - knew what they were risking with this. He knew that Lennox knew it - their Captain had been laid back, but he had accepted no deviation from military law while in command. They all knew it, and they all knew quite well that the only thing that could make the situation worse for them would be if the kid put Secretary Keller in a headlock.

From here, he could see the little black oak leaf on Simmons' shoulder, gleaming in the fluorescents; a little reminder of what they were risking with this. Court Martial. Loss of their jobs. Fines. Jail time. 

The death penalty, if someone higher up really decided to be a dick about things.

Death and dismemberment by giant alien robots if they didn't do something quick, and the kid seemed to have a better idea of what they were dealing with than the S7 agents.

"I'm going to count to five-"

"Well, I'm going to count to three."

Epps took a tighter grip on his gun.


	13. Sacrifice

Ratchet was on point as they crossed the desert, sirens wailing in the chill morning air, warning the few humans on the road out of their way. Jazz followed the huge form of Optimus, Ironhide filling his review mirrors (and weren't _those_ the most useless additions he'd ever carried in vehicular form.)

The Solstice's processors were in overdrive, churning over the most recent developments in their situation. He kept coming back to two points - Bumblebee's capture, and their Prime's words at the observatory behind them. But the latter was slowly and surely edging out the former. He could deal with Bumblebee being gone - grudgingly, and angrily, but he could deal.

Optimus Prime being dead was an entirely different matter.

Unable to keep quiet any longer, Jazz tapped into a little-used, heavily encrypted frequency, a direct link to Optimus Prime that Jazz shared with only four other Cybertronians in the universe - one dead, one insane, and the other two far beyond the range of communication. "Jazzimus Prime isn't a title I ever wanted to carry," he said casually, trying to hide the sense of abandonment and despair that had fallen over his emotions since they left the observatory.

There was a brief hesitance from the truck. "Don't think it would suit you?" Optimus asked mildly.

"The title of 'Prime' doesn't suit any of us," Jazz replied flatly.

There was an impression of a sigh through the connection. "What would you have me do, Jazz?" Optimus asked, and Jazz _ached_ , because there was no demand in the Prime's voice, only weariness. "This war must end, and only the destruction of the Allspark will ensure that. I will not allow another world to fall to our war, and I will _not_ ask one of you to make this sacrifice in my stead."

"We would," Jazz answered tightly. "Any one of us."

"I know."

"Optimus, _don't_ ," Jazz all but pleaded, and he hated himself for sounding like a whinging sparkling, but somewhere along the line, Optimus had gone from a leader to his friend. "I'll take the Allspark, Ironhide would take it, Ratchet wou-"

"And I will not ask any of you to do so," Optimus cut him off. "This isn't 'just another suicide mission', Jazz. What I'm planning borders on blasphemy at the very least. To even contemplate destroying that which gave us life-"

"You think that matters to us?" Jazz snapped. "Maybe way back when, yeah, it would've mattered." It would have more than mattered, at the start of the war. Had Optimus suggested this early on, Jazz probably would have killed the leader himself to prevent such an event. Amazing how time changed one's priorities. "We're not following you for the good of Cybertron," Jazz continued. "We're following you because you're Optimus Prime, and you're our leader and our _friend_. The Autobots are _nothing_ -"

"No," Optimus said, almost harsh. "No. If all we have fought for can be thrown away just to save my life, then we have failed. I am not consummate, Jazz."

They drove in silence for a time, the sun creeping higher in the sky, warming the day. Finally, Jazz spoke again. "I'll take the Matrix," he said quietly. "I'll carry the thing, I'll even accept being called 'Prime'. But only under two conditions." There was a question in Optimus' silence that Jazz took as permission to continue. "I won't keep it forever. If Prowl or Ultra Magnus show up, or even if Ratchet asks real nice, I'll hand it over. Despite what you say, I think after so long with you, the Matrix wouldn't be all that happy with 'a slag-sucking spy who slits energon lines in the night'."

"You underestimate yourself," Optimus murmured, a hint of amusement in his tone.

"Pot, kettle, black," Jazz shot back, not bothering to explain the human saying. "Second condition: you have to beat me to the Allspark."

"Absolutely _not_."

"Absolutely. If I get to it first, it's _my_ spark that's getting it. And you can't order me not to - if I'm dead, I'm not too afraid of whatever punishment you might dream up." Jazz couldn't tell if Optimus was more annoyed at his words or the smug tone he used. "Race you there, Optimus."

There was a moment of stunned silence, before Optimus let out a tired chuckle. "Fine. A race."


	14. Drowning

When Keller offered up a plan, he jumped on it. When the two hackers started demanding tools and equipment, he complied, running back and forth across the cluttered room, splicing wires and digging through boxes. When that chattering metal freak attacked, he defended his allies far too eagerly, losing himself in the fight.

He _had_ to lose himself, had to fill his mind with _something_.

Because if he sat there and thought about what he had just witnessed, if he thought about that giant yellow bug reaching up and folding his life's work into a little box and driving away, he was going to go insane.


	15. Night

Ironhide stared out over the cracked desert, his cannons at casual readiness by his side. Another attack by the Decepticons wasn't expected, not after the mess that was Mission City, but if there was a second cell of 'Cons in America, now would be the time they struck, when two of the Autobots were out of commission and the rest were various degrees of having the utter slag beaten out of them.

They had been allocated a little-used corner of the Nellis Air base, away from the main lights and where their presence wouldn't send the more jumpy members of the human militia into screaming fits. Their various human allies were in the same area, despite having been offered better lodging elsewhere, a fact which Ironhide found fitting. The humans had fought for Autobot ideals, had joined a battle that wasn't theirs, and as far as the weapons specialist was concerned, the only thing that was keeping them from actually being Autobots was a lack of their insignia.

Like the one crossing the tarmac towards him now. Jazz's research had told them to expect the female half of the human race to be weaker, more prone to hysterics than heroics. The girl had flipped _that_ notion right over, to be sure. She'd had a chance, a perfect excuse to get out and away, and instead she dove right back in, Bumblebee -literally- in tow, and they had probably save the lives of the human Captain's group from Brawl. A warrior worth calling an ally.

She didn't look much like a warrior just then. Her arms were crossed, her hands fisted into the material of the Air Force sweatshirt she'd been given, and she was looking around nervously as she walked, like she was... scared? Ironhide squinted at her - human facial expressions were so _strange_ \- yes, that could definitely be fear writ on her face. Maybe. She looked straight at him, without acknowledging him or even changing her expression, twice. How odd. The humans were usually almost overeager to react to the presence of the Autobots. "Is something wrong, Mikaela Banes?" he asked.

She jumped, spinning towards him with one hand over her chest and her face contorted into a grimace. " _Jesus!_ " she exclaimed, her eyes tracking up to focus on his face. "Don't _scare_ me like that!"

Optimus would have apologized immediately. Ironhide wasn't Optimus. He frowned down at the human. "How could I have startled you?" he asked. "You knew I was here - you looked at me twice."

"But I didn't _see_ you," she pointed out, walking closer. "You're standing over there in the shadows, and black kind of blends in."

Ironhide looked down at himself, frown deepening. He was in a shadowed area, true, but only because the building he was beside offered him some degree of cover if a Seeker decided to do a fly-by. Anyone should have been able to see him perfectly, unless - "Human eyes are not that sensitive, are they?"

"Guess not," Mikaela said, making another face, one that passed a little too quickly for Ironhide to be able to identify properly. "You guys probably have night vision and infrared and all that too, huh?"

"Something like that," Ironhide conceded. "So, how are you able to see me now?"

She tapped her temple. "Your eyes glow. If I had looked up earlier, I would've seen them."

Okay, so she was a little unobservant for a warrior. But according to Bumblebee, she'd also been a civilian up until two days ago. He could forgive her a slip here and there, as long as she didn't get herself or anyone else killed. Besides, she could be trained. "Is that why you looked so fearful before? Because you cannot see in the dark?"

He could peg _that_ expression - embarrassment. "It's hard, sometimes," she admitted. "Even when I _know_ that there's nothing in the shadows that can hurt me, I still get creeped out."

The internet on this planet was a useful thing. Scotophobia, fear of the dark. Ironhide snorted briefly. "The dark is an immaterial thing," he pointed out. "How can one be afraid of it?"

"It's not the dark," she insisted, shaking her head. "It's what's _in_ the dark, hiding."

Say _again?_ "But you said yourself," he argued. "You know nothing's there."

"There's a difference," she said wryly. "Between knowing and believing."

He made a half-committal grunt, dropping the conversation. Primus, she was confusing. Were all humans this scatter-brained? She chuckled, as if she knew what was going through his head, and kept walking, not looking nearly as scared now. Maybe because she knew what was in the shadows, now, and he didn't scare her as much as her imagination could. Shaking his head, Ironhide went back to his watch.


	16. Can You Hear Me?

Sleep was hard to come by. The night before, he'd slept the sleep of the completely exhausted; half gone before his head even hit the thin pillow of his cot. But ten hours of sleep, a filling (though bland) meal, a hell of a lot of aspirin and a lot of talking later, Sam was awake sometime after midnight, roaming the halls of the Nellis Air Force Base hangar they'd been allotted. 

S7 had wanted everyone who fought alongside the Autobots put under strict medical observation at the Hoover Dam. Optimus Prime had politely requested that their human allies be allowed to stay near the Autobots themselves, 'in case of any previously-undetected Decepticons who wished for revenge'. John Keller had agreed with Optimus and here they were, well out of S7's grasp, as the Autobots refused to stay in a place where one of their own had been tortured.

Simmons was mad enough to spit bullets. But not quite mad enough to tell John Keller _and_ Optimus Prime to shove off.

Sam, musing on irate agents and giant robots, didn't quite pay attention to where his feet were taking him until he rounded a corner and found himself outside. A cool night breeze lifted his arms into goosebumps, and he rubbed at the knobby flesh, looking around. Diamond bright stars overhead, and chain-link fence all around, and Ratchet and Optimus Prime loading Bumblebee into Ironhide's truck bed.

Sam hesitated a moment before crossing the cracked tarmac over to the robots. Yeah, sure, Bumblebee had asked to stay with him and yeah, Optimus had called him an ally and a friend, but _damn_ they were big. Big, and nerve-wracking, and Sam felt... felt _unworthy_ of talking to such magnificent creatures.

Magnificent creatures that, judging by the music he'd heard from the main hangar space earlier in the evening, had a fondness for both country music and 80's hair bands, but still.

Bumblebee saw him and waved, nearly knocking Optimus in the face with his arm as he was lowered into Ironhide's bed. Optimus looked around to see what had caught the yellow 'bot's attention and smiled when he saw Sam. "Good evening, Sam Witwicky," he rumbled, straightening. "Or perhaps 'Good morning' would be more appropriate?"

"Hello, Optimus," Sam replied, crossing the remainder of the distance between them. "You guys going somewhere?"

Optimus nodded, his face grave. "It is the way of our kind," he said. "To honor the dead, and celebrate the living, after a battle. As we have much to celebrate, and much to mourn, we decided that moving away from the living quarters to avoid waking anyone would be best." He tipped his head slightly, considering. "Would you like to come along?"

Sam boggled a little, caught off-guard by the question. "Me?" he asked, his voice squeaking. "I mean, are you sure you want a human in the middle of your ceremony and stuff?"

"We'd be honored to have you along, Sam," Bumblebee said gently. "And I think you will enjoy it."

Sam shrugged. "Okay, I s'pose," he said uneasily, and damn, that sounded awkward, but Ironhide rolled up to him anyway, doors open in invitation. Sam crawled in the back seat, where the rear window was open and Bumblebee was looking under his own arm to peer in.

Optimus led the way, out of the fenced-in area, past a sentry who saluted the passing truck, and out into the great, open spaces of the Nellis Air Force range. They didn't stay on the road for long, cutting their own path through the desert, and after a time, the base lights and the brilliant glow of Las Vegas faded away behind them.

Sam didn't know how long they traveled before they pulled to a stop. He climbed out of Ironhide's cab and found a boulder to perch on, sitting with his knees drawn up and the last of the day's warmth rising from the rock as Bumblebee was manhandled out of Ironhide's bed. The moon, half full and painfully white cast a scattered glow on the Autobots as they transformed, more visible in the light of each others headlights and glowing eyes than of the moon. 

Then they transformed _again_ , all four of them, huge frames shifting only slightly. Sam's eyes went wide as the almost-familiar tires and car emblems and panels and decorations melted and blended, colors and shapes blurring and blending until they looked nothing like what Sergeant Epps had described as 'car origami', though they still looked like _themselves._

It took Sam a moment to realize that this was the way they were _supposed_ to look.

"Bumblebee," Optimus Prime said, his voice a strange blend of happy and sad. "Sing us to our new home."

Sing? 

Bumblebee looked up at his leader in surprise. "Optimus?"

"You know Earth better than any of us," Ratchet said. "It is only fair that this planet hears your song first."

"Introduce us," Ironhide added. "Let Earth know we're here."

Bumblebee looked between each of them, then nodded once. He settled himself, looking out over the desert, then raised his head and let out a long trill. The noise skirled up into the night, faint echoes bouncing off of boulders and flat bands of shale. Bumblebee glanced back at Ratchet, and got a nod in return. Looking more nervous than Sam had ever seen, he turned back to the desert and lifted his head again.

It was unlike any song Sam had ever heard. He'd heard their speech, the scrabbling electronic noise like modems talking to each other. This was both like and not like that sound; longer tones, sharp dips and spikes in pitch, a low warbling undertone like a whale's song tying it together. Sam stared, transfixed, and he jumped and almost tumbled himself off his boulder when another voice joined in. 

Ratchet, he figured out. Not as high-pitched as Bumblebee, more fluid and rolling, like comparing a trilling flute to a clarinet. Ironhide next, lower still, a powerful thrum that chased the other two through the pitches. Optimus last, a deep bass throbbing between the others, marking the beat in a rhythm quite unlike anything Sam had ever heard. They sang together, a weird melody that went up, down, up again, and it sounded almost like a choir practicing the scales before a show, the singers getting used to each other and their venue before starting the real performance.

The impression was deepened when they stopped and looked at each other again. Ironhide said something in Cybertronian and the others nodded, and Bumblebee glanced back at Sam with a smile before turning back towards the empty desert.

Sam hugged his knees, the cold forgotten, sleep long gone, as he watched the metallic beings weave a song through the night.


	17. Are You Challenging Me?

Glen had almost tuned out the throbbing stiffness in his hands and shoulders and back, had almost been able to ignore the lumpy cot beneath his abused spine, had almost been able to forget that there were still two giant aliens in the room, had _almost_ fallen asleep, when the two started.

Bleary, the hacker peeked out from under the arm thrown across his eyes. The muted conversation had grown in volume, from hushed murmurs to annoyed hissing and spitting, like a pair of cats. Abruptly, Maggie spun in her seat, hair frazzled from near forty hours without sleep, to glare at the figure behind her. "I do _not_ need to sleep!" she snapped.

Ratchet scowled at her, crouched down just behind the analyst to see over her shoulder. Glen debated warning the big robot that when it came to arguing with Maggie, he was fighting a losing battle. "You've been online for far longer than is healthy for your kind," the alien half-growled. "You're exhausted, and you need to rest."

Maggie snorted indelicately, spinning back towards the console. "Sleep can wait," she stated with flat finality. "This code will _not_."

"That virus is done evolving," Ratchet retorted. "I made sure of that. The only thing left to do is withdraw it from the system, and _that_ can wait a few hours."

"That's a few hours that this country will be without communications!"

"They've lasted two days; they can wait a few more hours!"

"I'm _fine_!"

"You're about to _drop_!"

"I can go for at _least_ another five hours!"

"Even your friend is sleeping!"

"He won't be for much longer if you keep shouting at me!"

Never mind that they were _both_ shouting by now. Glen shook his head, and debated yelling something about trying to sleep, when something caught his eye. He was sure Bumblebee had fallen asleep (or whatever it was that they did) hours ago, his damaged legs stretched out in front of him where Ratchet had left him after the last batch of repairs. Now those weird blue eyes were lit up again, watching the ensuing argument. 

Bumblebee looked at Glen, and gave a rather good impression of rolling his eyes for someone without pupils. Glen couldn't help a grin, shaky and nervous though it was, and Bumblebee smiled back before deliberately 'shutting' his eyes and going back to sleep. Glen figured that the robot had it about right, seeing as neither Maggie nor Ratchet looked about ready to give up any time soon, and the hacker rolled over, tuning out the shouting.

When he awoke to the sound of his watch beeping in his ear two hours later, Maggie was still awake and Ratchet looked _highly_ irritated as he dug around inside of Bumblebee's leg. Glen shot the yellow robot an eyeroll of his own and was given a big, robotic grin in return, before he joined the now-drooping Maggie at the console.


	18. Sister-In-Arms-In-Law

There was something weird about that truck.

Sarah Lennox watched it from the kitchen window. She didn't lift up the curtain and peer suspiciously like an old biddy from a sitcom, but sat in a chair, peeling potatoes and pretending to watch the sky, the curtains wide open, and if her eyes sometimes wandered over to the truck, no one would find it strange. Concealment by being in the open. 

Arms were all of a sudden around her shoulders, hot breath against her neck, and she really must be losing her touch if her beloved lunk of a husband could sneak up on her in a kitchen. "You know," Will murmured into her hair, sliding one hand down to gently cup her breast through her shirt. "It's never _not_ funny to see you, of all people, doing housework."

"Watch it, soldier," she said dryly, giving her peeler a vicious twist to dislodge an eye from a potato, but she leaned back into his touch anyway. "I'll have you scrubbing the toilet until I can apply my makeup in the reflection."

"Yes, ma'am," he said cheekily, not bothering to remove his hand. "Would you like me to dig out my old academy grays to wear while I do?"

"Don't tempt me," she replied. His hands grew bolder, stroking along her torso, and she let out a hitching sigh. "Damn it, Will, I'm trying to cook here."

"Mmmhmm. Housewife is a good look for you." His mouth brushed along that one shivery spot behind her ear, and potato salad all of a sudden seemed a lot less important. She arched back against him, her eyes half-closed and unfocused - until the truck caught her attention.

It had moved.

Not much, but it was a few feet back from where it was, so that she could only see a slice of the front end from where she was, instead of most of the cab. Sarah sat bolt upright, earning a protest from Will, and stared hard. Yes, it had most certainly moved. She could see the tracks where it had sat before. "Will," she said urgently. "The truck is moving."

Will Lennox was good, but she was better, and as much as he tried to be completely casual in the way he leaned over her to look, she saw the tension in his shoulders. "It looks pretty still to me, babe," he pointed out, but he didn't look at her, either.

"It's been _moving_ ," she insisted. "All morning. It's been creeping backwards, a bit at a time, all day."

Will shrugged, standing upright. "I'll go check on it," he said. "Maybe I left the parking brake off."

"There's no slope to that ground," she pointed out, but he was already heading out the door. She watched as he got in and started the huge machine up, then drove it around the other side of the house.

It would be hours later when she realized that he hadn't grabbed the keys from the hook when he went.

o o o

The next day, Will cleared out the main floor of the old barn at the back edge of their property and stored the truck inside. Sarah felt relief at not having to look at the weird vehicle, mingled with dread at having it out of sight. She was with Annabelle in the living room when he came back in, covered in hay and rusty streaks from old machinery. "It's not going anywhere now," he said, satisfied. "That floor is as level as man can make it, and I made sure the parking brake was on."

"Good," Sarah said decisively, carefully peeling Annabelle's tiny fist from around her hair. "How long is it ours?"

Will shrugged, ruffling his own hair to dislodge flecks of ancient grain. "Government loaner, like I said," he answered. "I'll probably be required to take it back when I report again."

"Hn." The sooner it was gone, the better Sarah would feel about it. "I don't like it, Will," she admitted. "It feels creepy, like it's haunted or something."

"Truck-ghost," Will said solemnly. "An old sergeant probably got stabbed in the bed of it, by a private who went over the deep end and couldn't take his yelling anymore."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "You're an asshole," she pointed out. "I'm serious. And you're insane if you think I, or my daughter, are stepping foot inside it."

Will sighed and crossed the room to kiss her on the forehead. "You're not the type to get weirded out over a car, Sarah," he said quietly, sitting on the arm of the couch next to her. "You think it's bugged, or something?"

"Maybe," she said, chewing on the inside of her lip. "No, I don't think... It's just _weird_ , Will."

"I'll see if Pep Boys has anti-weird spray, then," he promised. Sarah shoved him off the couch arm and onto the floor. Annabelle burbled happily in her lap.

o o o

There were voices from inside the barn.

Sarah stood on the back porch, clutching her elbows as she listened. The wind was just right, carrying snippets of conversation, and if she watched long enough, she could see a dim blue light from inside the barn. Will had gone up the road to borrow something from their nearest neighbor, and wasn't back yet, and he'd left his phone on the counter. Annabelle was asleep, Sarah was alone, and there were apparently two men in her barn.

Oh well. She'd always worked best alone, anyway.

She slipped back into the house, padding up to her and Will's shared study. The guns were kept in a secure locker under one desk, each clean and ready. She picked up her preferred 9mm and pocketed a couple magazines before heading back outside. Old training came back quickly, and she eased across the dark landscape with a minimum of noise, moving quicker when the wind blew enough to cover her.

She kept to the shadows of the barn as she crept around to the back entrance. She could hear clearly now; a deep, husky man's voice, and one that sounded a little too much like Will's for comfort. She paused at the edge of the door, her ear pressed against a crack in the wood. "It is not right," Husky was saying. "She is your partner; she should be informed."

"I know, I know." Oh god, it _was_ Will, and he was keeping secrets. "But I really, _really_ , don't want her to have to go through all the secrecy and Sector seven bullshit I had to deal with. You think I want that Simmons creep threatening my wife into silence? Shit." Silence, and a thump of booted feet, as if he were pacing. "Besides, how do I explain _you_? Just say 'honey, there's someone I want you to meet, don't mind the weaponry'?"

A snort, and Husky sounded like he was up in the air. The hayloft, maybe. "If you don't tell her about me," Husky said. "She may end up finding out on her own."

"Damn right I will," Sarah said loudly, shoving open the door and storming into the barn. She was going to give Will the ass-chewing of his life, and whoever his rough-voiced friend was could-

Could-

There was a monster in the barn. A twenty-foot-high behemoth towered over her, standing in the center of the building, icy blue eyes the only detail she could pick out in the gloom. Sarah let out a breathless shriek and raised the 9mm by instinct, firing at the thing's face. Will yelled something and the monster moved quickly, raising one arm to shield it's eyes, and she could hear her bullets ricochet off of metal. 

The gun clicked on an empty and she ejected the magazine with a smoothness of long familiarity, but before she could reload, Will's arms were around her, pinning her arms down. "Sarah, stop!" he yelled, and she elbowed him in the gut. The monster was watching them struggle, not moving, and Sarah fought against her husband's grip to get her hands free before it decided to smash them both flat. "Sarah, he's friendly, stop! Please!"

The monster's head cocked sideways, like a curious cat. "Do females always shoot first, ask later?" it asked, in Husky's voice.

Sarah froze, momentary outrage overcoming the blind need to kill the thing before it killed her, her daughter, her husband (though the way he was acting, he was definitely low on the list right now) "No, we certainly do not!" she snapped. She turned her head to glare at Will over her shoulder. "Let go of me, before I break your nose."

"Don't shoot at him," Will ordered. "He's not going to hurt us." A pause. "And it's a waste of bullets. Those won't hurt him."

"I'm pretty sure it'll hurt if she takes an optic out," the monster pointed out. "Your mate has good aim, Lennox."

"I won't shoot at him," Sarah said grudgingly. She'd definitely need something bigger. Will slowly let her go, tensed to grab her again, and she stood upright to fix him with the coldest glare she could muster. "Explain yourself, soldier."

"Ironhide," Will said, gesturing at her. "Meet my wife, Major Sarah Lennox of the US Army. Sarah, meet Ironhide of the Autobots."

o o o

Sarah Lennox had been surprised many times over her life. She had been pleasantly surprised when a punk Lieutenant she'd beaten in a boxing match during a command-wide event started courting her. She'd been more surprised when he asked her to marry him. She'd seen things during some of her missions that would make little old ladies faint away. She'd felt deep wonder at the miracle of her tiny daughter.

This surpassed all of that.

Sometime during Will's very abbreviated explanation of the behemoth in their barn, her eyes had grown used to the dim light, and she'd realized Ironhide was the _truck_ , unfolded and upright, and she sank to her knees, gaping at the split 'GMC' on it's chest. Will knelt at her side, concerned, and part of what he had said started to register. "He's an alien," she said carefully. "You're keeping an alien truck in our barn."

"Kind of," Will hedged. "More like he likes me, for some reason, and he's sticking around."

"Oh." Abruptly, she rounded on Will, full of righteous fury. "And just when were you planning on telling me?" she demanded. 

Will was surprised into falling backwards, landing on his butt with a thud. "I... wasn't?" he offered. "Babe, you know how much shit you'll have to go through now? Know how many forms you have to sign? The stack could keep a hobo's fire going for a month and then some. And the people involved are _not_ the kind I want you to have to deal with."

"I was Spec Ops, Will," Sarah hissed. "I know damn well what a non-disclosure agreement means."

"This is a little more than a simple non-disclosure," Will snapped back. "You're a _target_ now. You think an alien robot with guns the size of a tree is on Earth on a pleasure jaunt?" There was another snort from Ironhide, which both humans ignored.

"I've been shot at before, too," Sarah pointed out. She eyed the great silver-gray cylinders on the thing's arms. "And by bigger guns than that." 

"Yeah, Kosovo, I know," Will said distractedly, while Ironhide made some kind of protest. "And I don't mean by him. There's other ones out there, and they're not as nice as he is."

Sarah gaped again. "How'd you know about Kosovo?" she demanded.

Will grinned wickedly in the gloom. "One of your JO's was at Qatar," he said smugly. "He'd developed quite the crush on you while in Kosovo. I never knew you could belly-dance."

Blood slammed into Sarah's face, and Ironhide made a sound that could have been a laugh, and could have been an engine rev. "That information could get you killed," she said darkly. "And not by me."

"And knowing about him could do the same to you," Will pointed out. He sighed, running a hand along his hair, still too short to run through it properly. "Sarah, I don't want you involved in this." he said finally. "It's... it's big. Too big, and I wish like hell that _I_ wasn't involved in it. I had no choice, though, and now I'm in it to the end. I didn't want that for you."

Sarah was silent a moment. "Qatar wasn't just a terrorist bombing, was it?" she asked.

"He was disguised as a helicopter," Will said in a dead sort of tone. "And he had a pet scorpion the size of a Volvo."

"And he's dead now," Ironhide said firmly. "You delivered his death blow yourself, Lennox. And Scorponok can't hide from us forever. We'll have him."

Sarah looked back and forth between Will and the hulking Ironhide. "This is an honest-to-god war," she said. It wasn't a question, but Will nodded anyway. "Between alien robots who want to kill us, and alien robots who want to help us." Another nod. "And you trust him." A third nod, and Sarah thought for a moment, then stood up and crossed the dusty cement floor to Ironhide.

Despite being so much larger than she was, he seemed a bit apprehensive at her approach. She stopped almost between his feet, craning her neck to look up at him. "My husband trusts you," she said flatly, her hands on her hips. "So far, his character judgment has been pretty good. But I swear to you, you scare my baby revving that engine of yours, or shooting those pop-guns, and I will teach you a new meaning of the phrase 'wrecked transmission', am I clear?" 

"Ma'am, yes ma'am," Ironhide replied smartly, firing off a neat salute, and it was hard to tell, with the dim lighting and the oddities of his face, but she thought he might be smiling. "Keep it out of my cab until it's old enough to properly retain it's fluids, and we should have no problems."

"Good." He could have protested the threat, gotten indignant, or angry, or any of a hundred other responses, and he chose to play along instead. Sarah liked him better already. She whirled on Will, who was dusting off his jeans from his trip to the floor. "And you," she said coolly. "Are on night baby watch for the next week. She's probably just about to wake up for her next feeding, so hup to."

"Yes, ma'am," Will said, rolling his eyes. He crossed over to her, spun her around, and dipped her over his outstretched leg, kissing her soundly. "I really am sorry," he murmured before he spun her back upright and walked out.

Sarah took a moment to catch her bearings, and she didn't realize she was resting her hand on Ironhide's leg until she noticed it vibrating faintly under her hand. She snatched it away quickly and muttered an apology, hurrying after Will. As she closed the barn door behind her, she heard a low chuckle, and a peculiar clanking noise. Peeking back into the barn, she saw the truck sitting there again, still and pristine, with no sign of the alien itself. The truck's lights flashed once, almost like a wave, and went dark.


	19. Recall to Arms

Epps leaned back in his chair, spoon jutting from his mouth as he reached for the cheerfully warbling phone on the counter. He fumbled the slick device, cursed, and finally caught it, flipping it open with one hand and dropping his spoon back into his bowl with the other. "Epps."

"Bobby-boy, how the hell are ya?" came a way-too-happy voice. "Enjoying being a civilian again?"

Epps rolled his eyes, grinning anyway. "I was, Wild Bill, until about... thirty seconds ago.

Lennox laughed, dropping the obnoxiously bright tone. "Good to hear, man. How're your girls?"

"Sleeping in," Epps replied, shoving a spoon full of cereal in his mouth. "Stayed up late last night, watching movies."

"Sounds like breakfast."

"Cocoa puffs. Stop avoiding the subject. What's up?"

"What?" Lennox asked, just defensive enough that Epps immediately knew something was up. "I can't call my favorite sergeant-turned-civie and check up on him?"

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that, so I can still respect you in the morning."

"It's zero-eight-hundred and some, and I'm not feeling respected."

"Still avoiding the subject."

"Do you want your job back?"

Epps paused, staring at nothing in disbelief, his spoon halfway to his mouth. "Come again?"

"The United States Military," Lennox said slowly. "Is offering you another job."

"Why?" Epps demanded. "Will, my enlistment is over. Done, kaput, over and out. Qatar was my last station, and I ended up extending a month just to finish up there."

"I know, I know," Lennox said placating. "But get this. Remember that Banachek guy? Turns out he's Colonel Banachek, US Army. And he's the new CO of the shiny-new Tranquility Air field, which is just a fancy cover-up for the newly minted 'Extraterrestrial Coalition Force'. And a certain Captain, who we all know and love, has been promoted to Major at the advice of a rather flashy-looking semi, and made both Executive Officer of the base and official military liaison to the Autobot Army."

"Congratulations," Epps said, chasing the last of his cereal around his bowl. "What's that have to do with me?"

"The good major needs a yeoman," Lennox continued. "One who knows point spreads and artillery spreads both. You'd be re-enlisted without dropping rank, and you'd get to spend your days in a nice, cushy office or chit-chatting with the new arrivals, learning about their culture, sharing ours and the like."

"Maybe you should get someone more diplomatic for the job," Epps suggested.

"The 'Bots like you," Lennox countered simply.

"Uh-huh," Epps mumbled, drinking down the milk from his bowl. "Can you give me one good reason why I should?"

"What level is your World of Warcraft fighter at?"

Epps' eyes narrowed at the fridge. "What makes you think I play Warcraft?" he asked coolly.

"That group you play with on Saturdays?" Lennox sounded way too amused for anyone's well-being. "It includes the Witwicky kid and his car. They hacked your account or something and found where you were."

"Son of a bitch," Epps said, half admiring, half annoyed.

"Face it, Bobby; you're bored out of your shiny little gourd. Your family will have a nice home here on base, you'll be able to play all the Warcraft you want, and if Optimus' plans for a moon base ever go through, you'll have dibs on being one of the first humans up."

"A moon base, huh?" Epps hesitated, desire for a nice, peaceful life warring with the action-craving part of him that had driven him to join the service in the first place. "I'll think about it," he said finally.

"I'll be by to pick you up Wednesday," Lennox replied, and Epps could hear the grin. "I'll get the MEPS here in town to write up another contract for you."

"I said I'd think about it!" Epps protested.

"And we both know what the answer will be," Lennox said. "See you Wednesday.


	20. Sticks and Stones

Bumblebee was waiting for Sam outside of the Patio - an area just outside of the base barracks where an awning, a few lawn chairs, a couple fans and a kiddie pool full of ice, pop and beer was set up for anyone who wanted fresh air without heat stroke. Some of the seats were occupied - Major Lennox doing paperwork, the rest lounging and half-heartedly trying to distract the officer from his work.

Sam bounced out of the barracks with a spring in his step that made Epps groan. "Witwicky, c'mon, man," The Sergeant protested, throwing one of his Skittles at the teen. "How the hell can you be so happy when it's so damn hot out?"

Sam grinned cheesily. "It's easy!" he said, obnoxiously bright. "Just turn that frown upside down!"

Epps snorted, head lolling back against the chair back. "Yeah, well, I turned your momma upside down last night," he drawled. "An' she sure as hell wasn't smiling then."

"Hey, watch it," Sam warned, even as the others laughed and whistled appreciatively. "My mom made you guys cookies."

"And her cookies were good," Epps smirked. "But her muffins were _divine_."

More laughter, a few catcalls, and Lennox looked briefly up from his clipboard. "Y'know, Bobby," he said mildly. "I never pegged you as the 'muffin' sort."

"No?"

Lennox did an admirable job not grinning. "Nope. Always thought you were more the, ah, 'sausage and gravy' type."

The laughter was downright explosive this time, and Epps gaped at Lennox in offended outrage. "Lay off the man," Mikaela said sweetly, walking up just as Epps opened his mouth to defend himself. "He's just grumpy because the Chair Force doesn't have their golf course built out here yet."

"And Mikaela, out of left field with a killer strike at the Air Force!" Sam cried, gesturing dramatically. "Can the Sarge recover?"

Epps was trying very hard to keep a straight face, made all the more difficult by Sam's wild movements and wrestling-announcer voice. "Goddamn kids," he managed. "Get off'a my patio."

"And he's down for the count!" Sam crowed, throwing up both hands. "Team 'Everyone not Epps' gets the point!" Laughing, the two teens dodged more airborne candy, running over to the still-waiting Camaro. "Heya, 'Bee," Sam greeted breathlessly, clambering into the drivers seat. "How's it going?"

"I am incredibly confused right now," Bumblebee replied simply, driving away from the barracks. "I desperately want to know what that conversation was about, but I'm terrified that you'll give me an honest answer."


	21. Savior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It would appear that we have reached the limits of what it is possible to achieve with computer technology, although one should be careful with such statements, as they tend to sound pretty silly in 5 years.  
>  ~John Von Neumann (ca. 1949)_

Miles gave a slow stretch and tucked his arm beneath his head. To his left, his elbow lightly bumped Sam's shoulder, and the curve of a huge, metal, yellow head edged into his field of vision, and beneath their backs was a prickly scrub that only barely earned the name of 'grass' and over them all arched an aching blue expanse of Nevada sky. Lazily, the boy lifted his non-pillow hand and pointed at the sky above. "And that one looks like a bunny with a bazooka."

Sam snorted laughter. "A bunny missing a leg, maybe."

"He's a war-torn bunny," Miles replied easily. "Farmer John stole his lucky rabbit's foot years ago, and now they're locked in constant battle."

There was a _whrr-kik_ as Bumblebee tipped his head to one side, processors working to puzzle out the picture Miles painted. "I don't think I'll ever understand the way the human imagination works," he said.

Miles shook his head sadly. Bumblebee could only 'see' shapes in the clouds after they were pointed out to him. Miles considered that fact tragic, but unsurprising. He didn't think his computer had a very good imagination, either. "'s cool, 'Bee," He said reassuringly. "We don't understand it, either."

Bumblebee sat up, and Miles watched him warily. The whole 'giant alien from Outer Space' thing was still new to him, and he wasn't -quite- sure he trusted Sam's new car-turned-companion, or Sam's girlfriend and -her- bike-turned-companion. And, okay, maybe he was a bit jealous. It was hard not to be, with giant intelligent robots like Bumblebee and Arcee and that big semi Miles had to meet before Sam would introduce him to Bumblebee running around.

As he was still absently gazing at the robot, Miles noticed when Bumblebee's head snapped around to stare at something. He also noticed when Bumblebee twisted and rolled up into a crouch, an insectile mask over his face, and his hand morphed into something that whooped and hummed and sounded like it was charging up towards something painful. 

"Bumblebee?" Sam asked, and Miles found himself shocked to hear actual fear in his friend's voice. "'Bee, what is it?"

"I don't know, so stay back," Bumblebee replied tersely. He aimed his transformed hand at a copse of bushes some distance away. "Show yourself!"

It looked like a crab. A large white-black-green crab with too many legs. It slunk out of the bushes like a kicked dog, multiple legs ticking against desert-dead shrubbery. Two mantis-like claws hovered in front of the bulk of it's body, almost seeming to shield the things face. Gleaming, poison-green eyes peered at them from behind the upraised limbs, tracking between the humans and the upright Camaro.

Bumblebee said something to it in high, squabbling Cybertronian, short and sharp. The thing let out a much simpler electronic sound that sounded to Miles a lot like fear, and dropped, yanking in the multitude of arms and legs, and the boy realized the creature had turned into, of all things, an Xbox 360.

Sam sucked in his breath. "I think that thing's from Mission City," He said slowly. "When I dropped the Cube, there was a guy on the street with an Xbox." His eyes went wide. "Jesus, 'Bee, Mission City is on the other side of the _state_."

Bumblebee flipped his mask back with a short jerk of his head. "I don't like this," He said. "All of the Cube's other creations were insane. Why is this one different?"

Miles thought of Sam's wild story, about the cell phone and the car and the Mountain Dew machine brought to life with the Cube. "Maybe it's because it's got such a big brain," He suggested. "I mean, an Xbox has got a lot bigger processor than a cell phone."

Sam stared at his friend in disbelief, but Bumblebee looked thoughtful. "It's possible," He conceded. "Maybe they were not so much insane, but more like they completely lacked the mental capacity to control themselves."

"They shot at us because they were _stupid_?" Sam asked in disbelief.

The Xbox shifted, part of it's casing lifting up to let a single eye peer out at them. It made another noise, musical rapid-fire beeping, and Miles thought about old MIDIs from old games. Bumblebee listened to it, head cocked. "It's speaking hexadecimal," He said. "It's grammar is _horrible_." He beeped back at it, and the thing slowly unfolded again, rising up with visible caution, still beeping. "It remembers you from Mission City," Bumblebee continued, looking at Sam. "I think it thinks it belongs to you. It's like what we would call a drone, just barely sentient. How it found it's way here, I have no idea."

Sam blanched slightly. "What would I do with a mutant Xbox?" He muttered under his breath.

Miles peered at the thing. "Is it safe?" He asked curiously. Bumblebee shrugged, and Miles stepped around the robot's leg towards the thing.

"What are you _doing_?" Sam hissed. "That thing could be a Decepticon for all you know."

"It's fine, I know what I'm doing," Miles shot back over his shoulder. The Xbox sank lower as he approached, looking for all the world like one of the scared cats his mother often rescued from the streets. Miles crouched in front of it, hugging his knees. "Hey little guy," He said softly. "I'm not gonna hurt ya."

"Miles, I suggest you get away from it," Bumblebee warned. "Sam's right, it could be dangerous."

"It's _scared_ ," Miles said, keeping his tone soft still. "It's all alone and doesn't have anywhere to go. That right? You just want a friend, huh?" It rose up slightly, like a wary dog stretching his nose out to sniff an outstretched hand. "You need a home?" Miles continued. "I think 'Bee'll get jealous if Sam takes you home, but I don't have my own alien robot yet." He reached out slowly, and though it flinched back slightly, it let him rest his hand on the flat back behind it's eyes.

"You've got to be kidding me," Sam murmured.

"Nope, no joke," Miles said, his thumb tracing a comforting little circle on the tiny robot's back. "I can't go leaving a poor, defenseless Xbox to fend for itself, what would my mom say?"

The thing let out a happy little chitter and scrambled at Miles, knocking him back on his butt. Bemused, the teen watched it curl up into an Xbox again in his lap, buzzing faintly like an electronic cat's purr. Mules grinned over his shoulder at Bumblebee. "Hey ma, it followed me home, can I keep it?"

Bumblebee shrugged. "That's up to Optimus," He said, standing. "I've contacted him about it, he want's to meet it." The yellow robot shifted back into his own alternate form, popping open his doors in invitation. Casting one last wary glance at the Xbox, Sam climbed in the driver's seat. Carefully tucking the sentient console under his arm, Miles followed after his friend.

All of a sudden, he wasn't so jealous anymore.


	22. What's Your Sign?

Mikaela giggles over the magazine, not worried about over-balancing herself right off Bumblebee's leg, as the scout's hand is curled firmly against her side. "Okay. okay," she grins. "Gemini man and Libra woman: Thrilling and passionate! Both air signs, Libra girl is both inspired and captivated by Gemini boy, who is never at a loss for words -or deeds- of love. It's a true case of mutual attraction at its finest, so enjoy, enjoy, enjoy!" She smiles sweetly across at Sam on Bumblebee's other leg." We're a match written in the stars, babe."

Sam blushes a little but he grins anyway. "Writ _by_ a star, anyway. After all," and he pauses to turn and make big, moony eyes up at Bumblebee. "It was a shooting star that brought us together." Bumblebee makes a sound rather like a backfiring car that the teens have learned to interpret as a derisive snort and they laugh again. "No horoscopes on Cybertron?” Sam asked.

“Not like that,” Bumblebee says easily, not nearly as pained when talking about the Cybertron that was as his teammates are. “There were pairs thought to be more compatible, yes, but they were based on our path in life, rather than when we were sparked. I was a trick-racer - an entertainer, so according to some, there was no way I’d ever be friends with, say, a politician like Ratchet. It was mostly,” he pauses briefly, looking up the human phrase he wants. “Hogwash.”

“So’s this,” Mikaela says, hefting the magazine. “Some of this is just _ridiculous_. Of course, there’s those crazies that plan their whole _lives_ around what the newspaper says every day.”

Bumblebee tips his head, considering. “That... does not sound stable,” he says finally.

“It’s not,” Sam says gloomily. “My aunt’s like that. If her horoscope that day isn’t favorable, she won’t even go outside. It’s _creepy_. For all she knows, it’s just some guy down at the newspaper office writing whatever comes to mind every day.”

“He gets his psychic powers from inhaling newspaper ink all day,” Mikaela says solemnly, then giggles again, shooting Bumblebee a sly glance. “So, baby, what’s yer sign?”

Bumblebee’s optics flicker a little as he does the calculations, back-tracking once to include leap-years. “Aquarius,” he says after a moment, and his fingers twitch just a little tighter against his humans sides. “And according to that thing, I’m compatible with you both.”

Sam and Mikaela grin at each other. “Told you,” Mikaela says. “Written in the stars.”


	23. Twin-a-Twim

They had been the best. A perfectly balanced duo of massive destruction; sleek, beautiful, deadly. They had been among the Autobot's top frontline warriors.

They had also been twins.

Doubled sparks like their own had always been a mystery, even to twins themselves, for millennia. But research into such a delicate topic, with it's high potential for violating the personal freedoms and thoughts of the 'subjects', was frowned upon in Cybertron's society. Then had come the war, and the Decepticon's dismissal of such concepts as personal freedoms, and they had been caught. Their queer double-spark had been examined, prodded, tested. Their minds had been tested in much the same manner, looking for the fabled 'Twin-bond' that, in his experience, was just two parts familiarity with each other and about five parts urban legend. And when no bond had been found, the researchers had tried _forcing_ a telepathic bond between them, with painful and futile results.

By the time the Femmes had been brought to the research facility, Sideswipe barely even cared. Everyone knew who the Femmes were; the delicate alien warriors who swore themselves to the Autobot cause. Their species had a form of mental bonding that intrigued the Researchers, and though it must have cost the Decepticons dearly to capture all three alive and whole, they quickly made up for the loss in knowledge gained from the Femmes unique structures, so like and so different from Cybertronian. By the time the first few rounds of their experiments were done, the Femmes had been wrapped around each other's minds until it was near-impossible to distinguish one from the other on the basis of personality alone.

When Jolt came in, Sideswipe was _far_ beyond caring. The little warrior had been the first in a new line of research, an attempt at splitting a spark to make a twin set from one mech. All the attempt had done was split Jolt's mind instead, leaving him outwardly unstable and probably insane.

When the Researchers got their claws into a second set of True twins, Sideswipe almost didn't care - until he saw them. They were _children_ , recently sparked and so young, so very young, but they fought the researchers at every turn with a very adult grit and determination and a vocabulary that made Sideswipe smile grimly. They weren't even old enough to be considered warriors yet, and here they were, fighting for each other with everything they had. And soon enough, they'd be broken, just like Jolt. Just like the Femmes.

Just like Sideswipe and his brother.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker shared a long, cold look. Enough was enough.

o o o

They ran, past empty planets and cold stars and long, painful stretches of space. They ran and Sideswipe's spark hurt with every passing klik, because Sunstreaker wasn't with them. The gold twin had held back, had covered their escape, and for the first time, Sideswipe regretted the lack of a twin-bond, because at least then he'd know if Sunstreaker was alive or dead.

And he couldn't go back and look for Sunstreaker, not now. Because now he was a leader, because he had a responsibility to the mechs he was with. Jolt was too unbalanced. Chromia-Arcee-Moonracer was too caught up in her own trebled mind to be more than vaguely concerned about anything else. Mudflap and Skids just didn't know enough to make it on their own. If Sideswipe abandoned them to search for Sunstreaker, they'd all fall prey to the Decepticons within breems. And if he found Sunstreaker, after all they risked to break the others out of the facility only to abandon them, his twin was likely to remove his head for him.

So, they ran. And Sideswipe used every trick in the datapad to keep them together. He cajoled, he threatened, he pleaded, he used blunt force when no other option was available. And, somehow, he got them to act as a team. He got them to _work_ , somehow. He got the Femmes out of their dreamy cloud-mind. He coaxed Jolt back into something like normality. He taught Skids and Mudflap the facts of life that they should have learned from their creators and the youth guardians. And, somewhere in there, he figured out how to be a mech that wasn't defined as Sideswipe, killer of Decepticons, or Sideswipe, twin of Sunstreaker.

Then they found the Prime's missive, and followed it to earth. And when Optimus sent out his second message, from the flight deck of the Stennis, Sideswipe added his own to it's tail. No secretly hidden, carefully coded 'I-hope-he-finds-this' note left carved into the rocks of a dozen dead planets; this was a brazen invitation riding on the strength of the Prime's transmission. A call to his brother, 'I am here, come back to me'. A call to the Researchers, 'You want us, come and get us'. The Prime did not approve. His team did.

Time passed, the war continued. And Sideswipe waited.


	24. Introduction

A Camaro, Sam reflected, as he attempted to stay in his seat, really wasn't made for off-roading. 

Bumblebee, though, didn't seem to mind much as they thumped across the desert landscape. This far from civilization, Sam had given up on pretending to drive and clung to the jouncing seat instead. "So-oh, new Autobots, huh?" He asked, over the sound of a revving engine and an old rock song.

Bumblebee swerved to avoid what Sam realized was an ant hill as tall as he was. "That's what the signal picked up." Bumblebee replied, and to Sam, he sounded just this side of estatic. Sam couldn't blame him. He had figured that it would take a while for any Autobots out there to get Optimus' message and act on it, but still. Three years was a long time to wait for answer.

Up ahead, Sam could pick out the multiple plumes of dust from the impact craters of the new arrivals. Four, maybe five that he could make out, stretched out in a crooked, half-mile long line. Sam suddenly felt apprehensive. Bumblebee was one of the smaller Autobots, and while Sam had full faith in his friend's combat abilities, five to one wasn't the greatest of odds. "You getting any more signals from them?" He asked cautiously.

"Nope." Bumblebee replied, still cheerfully bright. "Can't, really. Their landing stirred up too much interference. But I'm pretty sure I know who's in that group. It's fine, Sam."

Not really reassured, Sam sat back uneasily, his eyes first on the dust plumes, then, as they got closer, on the figures they were headed straight for.

There were six in all. One was rather tiny, just barely bigger than Sam himself. Three were a little larger than Bumblebee, and the last two could probably give Ratchet a good run in the size category. And as Bumblebee closed the remaining distance, all six had weaponry of some sort trained on the Camaro.

Bumblebee stopped about a hundred yards away from the group and flung his driver-side door open. Sam, not needing to be told twice, scrambled out of his seat and backed away. Bumblebee unfolded and stood, and Sam was once again reminded that his friend was outnumbered and mostly outsized. Bumblebee put his hands up in the universal sign of surrender, and spoke.

"Bah-weep-Graaaaagnah wheep ni ni bong."

Sam blinked at the utterly _weird_ noise. It wasn't the fluid electronic babble of the Autobot's native tongue, but it sure as hell wasn't english, either, or any other language Sam had ever heard. It sounded more like something you'd hear on one of those trippy kids shows with the dancing puppets, especially considering the kind of sing-song tone Bumblebee had used. "What the hell was that?" Sam asked, bewildered.

The group of newcomers had gone utterly still when Bumblebee had spoken. Now one of the big ones let out a choked sort of rumble, covering his face with one massive hand, and Sam realized that the mech was _laughing_. Two of the smaller ones broke out into strange but unmistakable laughter, leaning on the third in their size category, who ignored them both and called out to Bumblebee in Cybertronian. Bumblebee answered in kind, dropping his 'I mean no harm' pose, and the group started their way towards the human and his camero.

"Bumblebee?" Sam asked cautiously, looking up at his friend, "What was that?"

"The Universal Greeting," Bumblebee replied. "Think of it as a sort of the universe wide 'I mean no harm', 'hi how are you?' and 'take me to your leader' all rolled into one. Not even a Decepticon would use it unless they actually meant it."

"Oh." Sam said. "Then why did they laugh at you when you said it?"

The plates of Bumblebee's face twisted into what Sam had come to recognize as a smile. "Because on any planet, it sound's absolutely _ridiculous_."


	25. Diagnosis

"Uh oh," Epps muttered. But it wasn't a worried 'uh oh', and there was a half-grin tugging at his mouth. "The doc's in one of his moods."

Epps gestured, and the small clump of humans turned to see. The Autobots were in a rather straggly half-circle and Ratchet was pacing up and down the line, giving each robot he passed a cool, calculating glance. The Autobots watched him warily, pretty much everyone but Optimus subtly leaning away when the medic stopped and planted his hands on his hips.

Abruptly, Ratchet jabbed a damning finger at the twins, who actually cringed back and tried to hide behind Sideswipe. "Missing doors," he snapped. "Popped tires. Skids, half of your face is severely damaged. Mudflap, you'll be lucky if you get full use of your arm back." His gaze swept up to Sideswipe. " _Melted_ tires. Half of a hand missing. Shrapnel punctures in your fuel lines."

Down to the Arcee triplets, two of whom were holding the third across their laps, and his face softened a little. "Massive explosive damage. And I am not sure if Moonracer is alive because she is alive, or if you two are keeping her here." Back up to Jolt, and he hardened again. "I'd like to point out that your arm is not attached. At all. And your electro-core is causing EMP ripples that I'm sure I'd be able to feel in _France_."

Bumblebee cringed back, too, if only because Ratchet was working himself into a proper fury now, looming over the Camaro. "Teeth imbedded in your dorsal armor, a badly scratched optic, one door half twisted off, acid burns on your hands, and how did you get a tree branched lodged in your leg?" He didn't let Bumblebee answer, whirling on Ironhide, who stared back impassively. "Missing cannon. Missing leg cabling. Missing entire plates of armor. Explosive damage close enough to your spark chamber that I may have to replace the thing entirely, and you were on _fire_ at one point."

How someone Ratchet's size could seem to tower over someone like Optimus was a testament to the temper of a medic. Ratchet approached, all cold rage, at the very height of his rant. "Missing face plate. Broken fuel strainer. A crushed hand. Shrapnel in your arm and legs. Scorch marks where that Decepticon's armor was attached. A wrenched back strut. And not an hour ago, you had a hole in your chest large enough for me to stick my arm through _and why in the slag are you smiling at me like that_?!"

"I'm glad we're all alive, too, Ratchet," Optimus said gently, still smiling. 

For a brief moment, Ratchet looked about ready to cry.


	26. Ship-Shape

Sam admitted to being surprised. He'd seen pictures of aircraft carriers before, but he'd never though of where they actually stored the planes (and it wasn't like they could leave them outside - topside, their Navy liaison called it- if there was a monsoon or something, and the thought had never crossed his mind) 

The huge hangar in the heart of the ship was big enough that Optimus could stand upright and only hit an occasional fluorescent light, stretching most of the ship's length and crowded with people, planes, a couple of helicopters and the occasional officer's private car. Sections could be closed off, but there were too many planes overlapping the boundaries and the Autobots themselves didn't particularly care about privacy, so no one bothered. And the second day of the trip, Sam was pretty sure than every sailor on board managed to alter their usual route through the ship to pass by and ogle. 

Most of the Autobots didn't really care about that, either. Of the whole group, only Ratchet and Bumblebee had escaped enough damage to prevent transformation, which meant that Bumblebee was the only one in vehicle mode, his doors open and music crooning through the space, and Ratchet was moving among the others, tending to their injuries. Arcee and her sisters retreated to the safety of the space between Ironhide and Optimus, peering out between the two huge 'bots legs to glower at the passing humans, but they had never felt at ease around humans, anyway. Sideswipe was lounging, stretched full out on the floor (Ratchet's orders, actually, since his tires were still repairing themselves) and preened in the attention like a movie star by the beach. Jolt was exploring everything he could, including humans. Ironhide and Optimus were the most heavily injured, and they sat on the floor, propping each other up and dozing, giving their systems time to recover.

And the twins (after spending the first night huddled in a clump in the Prime's lap, that is) were dancing around, singing 'In the Navy' and 'I'm on a boat' as loudly as they could.

Sam stretched out on Bumblebee's hood, subtle vibrations from his friend's chassis like a massage on his tired, cramping, beat-to-hell muscles. He had a bed, in a semi-private room he shared with Leo, but only up here in the noise and music and squawking from officers that Jolt startled was he able to relax. There was still whispering in the back of his mind, still alien words and symbols crawling across flat surfaces, but he was getting the hang of this. He could work with this, and hell, he _wanted_ to work with this, because if even a tenth of what the voices whispered was true, he'd be the greatest theoretical physicist on Earth.

Drifting a little, watching an equation for the electrogravatational pull between two moons scroll across Sideswipe's back, Sam didn't notice the way Ratchet paused, staring off blankly, until Bumblebee switched from low-volume blues to blare out ' _Doctor, doctor, gimme the news!_ ' The Autobots all paused their various activities, looking at Ratchet.

Ratchet ignored them, his eyes flickering wildly, and Sam knew from Bumblebee that that meant Ratchet was scanning his surroundings on every frequency he could. "Prime," he said, in Cybertronian and Sam didn't notice that he could understand it, even if he'd never be able to speak it. "There is another of our kind here."

Watching Optimus go very still and very tense broke Sam out of his sleepiness completely. He sat up, curling his fingers into Bumblebee's grill. "Where?" Optimus asked, low and hard.

"I don't know," Ratchet replied, frustrated. "The signal is everywhere."

"Hail them. On every frequency."

' _There's no need for that,_ 'Sam thought, then froze, because he _hadn't_ thought it, and that sure as hell wasn't like the whisperings. ' _Tell that medic to stop pinging my sensors. I will talk when I am good and ready._ '

Sam floundered. There was an alien robot _in his head, talking to him._ His mouthed worked helplessly, evident enough that Ironhide gave him an odd look. "What is it, boy?" the big truck demanded, cutting across Sam's panicky thoughts.

"He wants you to stop," Sam squeaked. Ratchet turned towards him, confusion writ on his face, and Sam cleared his throat. "He- actually, I think it's a she, she sounds like a she, though I don't think you guys really have hes or shes and-"

"Sam," Ratchet snapped. "Did someone contact you?"

Sam nodded jerkily, Bumblebee revving with unease under his butt. "She wants you to stop, um, pinging her sensors. She'll talk when she's ready."

"Will she talk to you?" Optimus asked.

' _I will,_ ' the voice replied. ' _These mechs may be my enemy. I will not speak with them until they prove otherwise. And since they killed my leader, they will have to prove themselves_ very _well._ ' A pause. ' _You are not. You feel as the great Prime's felt. What are you, little one?_ '

"Yeah, she will," Sam said out loud. "She thinks you guys are the enemy, but I'm not, since I feel like, um, a Prime, I guess?" ' _How are you even talking to me?_ ' he demanded internally, trying to aim the thought at the voice.

' _You have a private communication channel, just any other mech,_ ' came the reply. ' _Though I am sure you are not one. Why did the large one kill the Fallen?_ '

Oh god. She was a Decepticon. ' _He wanted to kill_ us', Sam answered. ' _And destroy my planet and eat our sun._ ' He hesitated. ' _The Fallen was your leader, wasn't he?_ '

There was a thrum, like a disapproving frown. ' _He was not. We parted ways from the Fallen long ago, little one. No, my leader was Jetfire, who died so that the large one may wear his parts. Who is the large one?_ '

' _Optimus Prime_ '

Another thrum, and Sam realized with some unease that he could _feel_ it, physically, and judging by the way the Autobots were looking around, he wasn't the only one. ' _I'd be tempted to say that he is no Prime, had I not known that he killed the Fallen. Is he just? Is he compassionate? Does he care for his and those around him?_ '

' _He died for me,_ ' Sam snapped. ' _He died so that the Fallen and Megatron couldn't get to me and use my brain to find the harvester and destroy our sun. The old Primes gave me the Matrix to bring him back._ They _believe he's a Prime._ '

' _You lie._ '

Sam dredged up that horrible, terrifying memory, of death and pain and the awe-inspiring Primes standing above him, and he shoved it in the voice's direction as hard as he could. All of the Autobots flinched, staring at him, and he wondered if he'd sent to all of them by accident. The voice shrieked once and went silent, and the entire ship shuddered. "They gave me the Matrix for him," Sam growled out loud. "They told me to bring him back, and I would have done it even if they hadn't, because I _believe_ in him."

Optimus looked at him, surprised and concerned. _Everyone_ was looking at him. ' _The Autobots are humanity's allies,_ ' Sam continued, ignoring the eyes watching him. ' _They're teamed up with Major Lennox's men, to keep Earth alive and whole. Jetfire killed himself because he believed Optimus was the only one who could kill the Fallen. And if it wasn't for Optimus, we'd all be dead._ '

A contemplative little hum, and the ship's announcing system squealed with electronic noise. Sam and all of the rest of the humans cringed, covering their ears. The noise cut out a moment later, and what sounded like an old woman came across the line. "Passengers and crew of the USS John C. Stennis," she said. "My name is Brightwork. I greatly apologize for keeping my presence and identity a secret for so long. Please know that from this point on, I will no longer hide, not from those I work with. Major Lennox, could you meet with Captain Wilder on the bridge? I would like to speak with you both."

Another electronic squeal, shorter this time, and the ensuing silence was broken by an awestruck Skids. "Holy sheeeeit," he drawled, grinning widely. "She's th' _ship_."


	27. A Bug's Life

The transformers were miserable.

The military puts their bases in strange places, which meant that visiting various Navy bases lead to, at one point, having a two-week mid-summer stay in the middle of a South Carolina swamp. Sam personally didn't mind too much. The heat, he was used to from home. The humidity was new, and made him feel like he was breathing through a hot, wet washcloth, but again, it was bearable. Will, it turned out, grew up in Louisiana, so he was right at home.

The 'bots didn't mind the heat at all. Wet in general made them uncomfortable, but it was a minor nuisance. 

It was the _bugs_.

Great, black clouds of gnats. Small, trundling brown beetles. Whole flocks of mosquitoes. Ant-hills that came up to Sam's waist, full to bursting with huge red or black ants that swarmed at the faintest disturbance. Huge, lumbering June bugs. Horseflies the size of grapes. Chiggers. Spiders. Wasps.

The humans saw the insects as an inconvenience. The Cybertronians saw them as spawn from the blackest depths of the Pit. Bugs flew between the gaps of their armor, climbed their tires and limbs, wiggled into their joints and eventually got squished, leaving behind a sticky residue and an unpleasant gritty feeling of crushed exoskeletons. They kept to their vehicle forms unless absolutely necessary (which they were supposed to do, anyway, Will pointed out, but they usually took whatever opportunities they could to stand up) though creepy-crawlies still found their way in through the few chinks in their vehicle forms, mushing up on sensor units and windshields. 

Ratchet fretted over clogged servos and intakes. Ironhide worried about blocked firing pins. Bumblebee wailed that his armor was _never_ going to come clean.

Sam had remarked that they appeared to be suffering from the giant alien robot version of hay fever, which had sent the base commander into alarm and Will into belly-bursting laughter. 

The three along for this trip were huddled in a storage building-turned-alien garage when Sam and Will found them. The two humans were touting a good-sized barrel between them and looking way too cheerful under their sunburns and mosquito bites. The 'bots were hunkered down on their wheels, their engines revving ridiculously high, trying to burn out some of the insectile gunk that plagued their systems. 

"Good evening, gentlemen!" Will called out, thumping his end of the barrel to the concrete. "Special delivery, straight from Wheeljack at Nellis, care of the CO of Camp Swampy here." He pulled a paper from his pocket, flipping out with a flourish, grinning over the top at the unresponsive aliens. "My dearest friends - Perceptor's words, not mine - we have heard of your most unfortunate predicament. Unfortunately, as we are not allowed to, and I quote Ironhide's recent message home, 'blow the whole slagging, Primus-damned, worthless sunken mud trap sky-high - You actually said that, 'Hide? Seriously? - Wheeljack and I have set to alleviate your problem. Let us know how it works. Perceptor." Will slapped the barrel next to him. "Industrial strength bug repellant. According to Wheeljack's instructions, this is one application."

There was a moment of silence, and then both humans had to bolt as the three Cybertronian's made a mad dash for the barrel.

"That's just cruel, man," Sam remarked, watching the ensuing scuffle. Ironhide had the barrel in one hand and Ratchet in a headlock with the other, while Bumblebee was attempting to climb up both. "I mean, you could have told them there were about six more barrels outside."

"Where's the fun in that?" Will replied, leaning against the wall. Across the room, Bumblebee had managed to somehow climb on Ratchet's shoulders and was leaning on Ironhide's head as he reached for the barrel, when Ratchet shoved backwards against Ironhide. Overbalanced, the three toppled, crashing hard enough to crack the floor. Outside, the seamen Will had stabbed with hauling barrels were looking through the door with wide eyes, secretly whispering bets at each other on which alien would win. "Besides, this is the most exercise they've gotten since we got here. They'll get fat."

Sam snorted. "Well, you're in charge here, _you_ get to tell Optimus why we have to buy the Navy a new warehouse. Remind me to be in France when that conversation happens."


	28. First Contact

The crowd stared. The Autobots stared back.

A battle in the middle of Central Park was not how the President, the US's various in-the-know allies, nor Optimus Prime, wanted to introduce the Autobots to the world at large. Not that the world didn't know about their existence, anyway; Cairo wasn't exactly a small city, and all of the government cover-ups in the world couldn't play off the Fallen's world-wide announcement as a hoax. The battle near the pyramids was a far cry from the frantic, too fast battle in Sunday-morning-and-blacked-out Mission City. There was no hiding the damage from the world, and after 5000 sailors and marines got an up close and personal three-day boat ride with the Autobots, there was no hiding them, either, orders of silence be damned. 

There were plans in the works, for some kind of 'Welcome to Earth' broadcast; the human leaders wanted something that would show the world that the Autobots were _not_ on Earth to harm, and Optimus Prime had a sense of the dramatic that meant the plans were shaping up into something spectacular. Until Manhattan.

On the official paperwork, the group of Autobots were in New York on a culture-building exercise. Only interacting with hardened soldiers and the occasional wayward teenager wasn't giving them a wide variety of humans to observe and learn about, so several trips were made, all around the world, showing humans at their best and worst. Rock concerts and guerrilla warfare, seedy backstreets and high-school football games, political rallies and religious gatherings, all were attended, the gathered intel shared with those who stayed behind. The event in Central park was a Summerfest, a combination of music, crafts, and good food. And cars. There was a car show that the Autobots were neatly hidden within, and really, it was perfect for this kind of exercise, because where else should one go for pure variety than New York City on a summer day?

That is, until the Decepticons attacked.

It wasn't the first such attack. Scattered spots around the globe had been the subject of hit-and-run attacks over the year since Caro, each one sowing more discord and fear among the human population. The common tactic was hard intimidation and fear-mongering, followed by as much damage in as short a time as possible. The Decepticons in New York had started off showing much of the same plan; two of the huge monster trucks in the car show had stood up, leering over the panicking crowds, and one had started to leer something about 'pathetic humans didn't deserve to live in the same galaxy as Lord Megatron' when Hound punched him in the face.

For more than one Autobot present, there were uncomfortable flashbacks to Mission City; torn between destroying their enemies and protecting the frail humans milling around their ankles, they took too many hits, and missed too many opportunities. But still, they were eight against two, and the Decepticons had apparently forgotten to train for combat near trees. The foliage hindered both battle and escape, and it didn't take too long for the Autobots to take the Decepticons down.

It also didn't take long for cameras to show up. New York was not Mission City either, and news teams showed up before the police did. Pictures of the aliens went screaming across the internet, blazing down Wall Street and shouted up Broadway, and the news rippled out from Manhattan like waves on a pond. TV talkshow hosts sat up in their chairs and paid attention, newscasters started making phone calls, and one particularly dramatic image, of Ironhide and Cliffjumper, guns blazing as they stood above a tight knot of terrified parents and children on a playground, was already being re-sized to fit the front page of a few hundred newspapers world-wide. 

No one would admit to thinking that, PR-wise, such a battle, where the Autobots were clearly protecting the humans at the cost of their own health, would do more good for their image than a thousand press conferences.

There were casualties; it would have been a miracle had there not been. But the number of deaths was so much less than it could have been; so much less than Rio de Janeiro, Bahrain, and Morioka had suffered. The dead and injured were quickly, neatly evacuated, ushered along by the Autobots themselves and the incognito soldiers traveling with them, and not even the most hardened New Yorker was going to argue with a thirty-foot-tall metal man when he said 'go that way'.

But the day wore on, and, eventually, there was a lull in things, when hundreds of eyes turned towards the small clump of metallic bipedals. The quiet spread, drawing attention with the lack of noise, as more and more people stopped panicking about aliens in their midst and started thinking about them instead. 

The Autobots as a whole were as still as the growing circle of humans around them. Each was well aware that the wrong sort of movement now would send half of New York into a shrieking, screaming stampede of frightened people, and the rest would do their level best to try and kill them. The silence stretched, tinged in fear and wonder and shock, only to be broken by a thin, determined voice.

"Excuse me, 'scuse me ma'am, excuse me!" The speaker broke free from the crowd, a tiny boy of maybe six, almost tripping over a curb as he hurried across open cement towards the Autobots. He stopped halfway there, squinting up at the mechs, then cupped his hands around his mouth. "Excuse me, Mr. Alien, sir!" he bellowed as loud as he could, his hands more muffling than amplifying, but in the quiet his voice carried. "My name is Timothy Kincaid!" he continued, puffing out his narrow chest proudly. "And on behalf of the President, and the Queen of England, and the Mayor, and-" He broke off for a moment, his nose wrinkled up in thought. "And the King of Mexico, I welcome you to planet Earth!" He held out a hand - his left - towards the tallest of the Autobots in a clear, undeniable offer.

Optimus Prime carefully stepped towards the boy, kneeling down even as the crowd both shuffled back and leaned forward. He held out his own hand, more than large enough to smash Timothy flat, and gently, so gently, grasped the boy's offered hand between his own thumb and forefinger. Someone in the crowd (one Sally Kincaid, Timothy's grandmother, they all found out later) let out a breathless shriek of horror, clearly expecting Timothy's hand to be crushed. 

It wasn't. There was a flex of metal plates, and scale made Timothy's arm bob firmly while Optimus hardly looked to have moved. "Timothy Kincaid," the great robot said, his rich voice rolling through the park. "My name is Optimus Prime, and I thank you for welcoming my people to your planet."

Timothy flashed a brilliant grin, not in the least bit afraid of the huge creature leaning over him. "You're welcome," he chirped.

The lone photographer who caught the handshake clearly on film turned away, his mind already on the numerous awards he was sure to get for the image (it was eventually used by pro-Autobot supporters everywhere) Some of the crowd went with him. 

Others moved forward - not all, not even a majority, but enough, a start - slowly filling the open space between the two species.


	29. Oath

_"I, Samuel James Witwicky,"_

Four years. Four long years spent as far as possible from the easy-going life he'd had before.

_"Having been appointed an officer in the Army of the United States,"_

Four years spent doing push-ups until he collapsed, running until he puked, studying until he was at the brink of a nervous breakdown.

_"As indicated above in the grade of Second Lieutenant,"_

Four years without his parents, without Mojo, without Mikaela, without Bumblebee.

_"Do solemnly swear,"_

Four years at the Military Academy, good ol' West Point.

_"That I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States,"_

Four years of shoe polish, gray uniforms, books heavier than his laptop, guns bigger than his head.

_"Against all enemies,"_

Four years of leadership classes, PowerPoint briefs that said little, training missions that said a lot.

_"Foreign or domestic,"_

Four years of extra lessons that not everyone took, of standing with an elite group of cadets who ran with allies not of this world, underwent missions that most civilians could only dream of.

_"That I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same;"_

Four years of Chase, who no one expected to make it, of Jess, who no one expected to fail, of Mitch, who no one expected to turn up whenever he did, scaring the shit out of all of them.

_"That I take this obligation freely,"_

Four years of Captain Huch, who yelled and cursed and ranted and threw things and who was standing in the front row, looking at them with a smile, a _proud_ smile, that he'd never seen before.

_"Without any mental reservations,"_

Four years of Kup, who yelled less and cursed more and learned as much about humans from them as they learned about Cybertronians from him.

_"Or purpose of evasion;"_

Four years to come to this point, a little gold bar on his collar, his family and Mikaela and Miles in the audience, a silent ring of Autobots around the perimeter of the big room, his class mates at his sides and a General handing him a Bachelors of Sciences degree with a hand shake and a salute.

_"And that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office upon which I am about to enter;"_

Four years since he'd looked Will Lennox in the eye and said 'I want to join'.

_"So help me God."_


End file.
